A collection of photos and poems interacting with each other in ways both mysterious and obvious.
Some cheap plastic piece of crap
sitting in the weeds,
leaning against a wall
that hasn’t seen a fresh coat in twenty years.
Dwayne—whoever the hell he is—
probably punched a hole in the drywall,
kicked the dog,
yelled at the neighbors for parking too close.
they stuck him out here
to sweat it out.
but now the chair’s alone,
just like the rest of us.
Stretched skin against the abyssal black,
stitched by unseen hands,
tensions hum in silence,
holding stories of wind and weight.
The light grazes its surface,
a quilt of impermanence,
bound in fragility,
defiant against the void.
Portsmouth, New Hampshire
The radios sit, Bakelite husks,
Colors dulled by decades of light—
Red, green, blue, once vivid enough
To brighten rooms that are empty now.
Time hums inside them still,
The slow, indifferent tick of hands
Marking minutes that carried news,
Ballroom songs, the war’s end.
Music spilled out in tidy portions,
Tuned to the shape of ordinary lives.
Now, they gather dust on shelves,
Perfect and mute, outliving us all.
Waltham, Massachusetts
The slats—
angled ribs
against the night,
light drips through
like water slipping
between fingers.
Inside—
a chair, red,
a gesture of waiting.
Above it all,
the building listens,
holding its breath.
Brookline, Massachusetts
The awning stretches forward,
thin steel bones,
holding the weight of absence.
A cracked line of pavement,
its edges curling upward,
a slow retreat
from purpose.
Weeds twist
between fractures,
their stubborn green
cutting through the gray,
a quiet defiance
unnoticed,
persistent.
The sky folds low,
soft with clouds—
no sun,
only a dim light
slipping across the surface,
settling into shadow.
What was here
is no longer here,
yet the space remembers,
waiting,
its silence
a language we
cannot yet speak.
Mount Laurel, New Jersey
Standing steady above the bar,
A red glow against the geometry of walls,
Illuminated through his plastic skin,
Abiding warmth in the darkest nights.
Santa, unswerved amid chaos,
Beckons the timeless mirror of imagination,
Reflecting anticipation,
Bestowing rewards for those
Who sustain unwavering belief in the spirit of hope,
His gaze fixed on it all down below,
An emblem of steadfast persistence when
The season shifts from festivity to memory.
Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts
The dark noise of longing,
this opaque path,
prickly thickets of desire.
Footloose, Untethered, Stolen. Or if you believe such things, Simply slipping through Invisible portals, Vanishing without warning. Worn out steps of dancing feet. Previously confident , Across the path of practice, Passages of musical time Indefinitely suspended. Once loved evidence of Masterful pointes and whirling pirouettes, Retired by inevitable exhaustion. Hiding in plain sight, Consumed by the greengrass cloak Of enigmatic loss, This mystery of misplacement Happens to us all. Like the consequence of stolen moments, Disrupting the order of things, It produces a void, And a haunted memory of things That can never be replaced.
Saturday on the southern side of the island, just past Leviathan Cottage, a dead minke whale washed ashore. Word traveled fast; a steady stream of locals stopping to gaze, a sense of awe permeating the landscape of seagrass and rocks. The shape and size, contours and textures of the corpse, its briny scent not yet replaced by decomposition, and especially the grand stillness of this once living creature, emanates a peaceful spirit. Beached in the bardo state before body parts disconnect and dignity surrenders to putrefaction, there remains in this plangent reverence a reminder of what awaits us all, and the hope that we too have lived in grace.
Uncommon gestures and embroiled accidents, Suggestions and half truths, The rush to be home before dark, Anything you don’t do yourself Is hard to handle. The fiction of our lives resembles dreams, The importance of fighting for miracles. There’s a lunatic pride in accepting that It all starts with nothing but experience, And for some, A rich imagination. Nothing? Except being Encumbered by crashing waves of Chaos, Conflict, Desires. It doesn’t make any difference. Shoulder the belief that when you escape your past You’re not about to return voluntarily. You’re not who you think you are. Realize the number of imponderables in life. And, If nothing else, Start with the glory of a summer evening by the ocean.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 