We walked through that tunnel again last night. 
Water up to our ankles, the smell of something old. 
Graffiti on the walls—names, dates, symbols we couldn't read. 
You said it felt like a dream you wouldn’t tell me.

The rope still hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. 
I wondered who put it there, and why. 
Our reflections in the water looked back at us, distorted, 
like strangers we have become.

Beyond the tunnel, the street lights flickered. 
We stood there, listening to the distant hum. 
I wanted to say something, but the words— 
they just weren't there.

The distance between us stretched like the tunnel itself, 
longer than before, heavier than silence. 
We turned around and walked back, leaving the tunnel—
and what we once had—to its own darkness.

Peaks Island, Maine

Someone put him there—
high above the street, above the world,
arms on the rail, blank-faced,
like a priest who forgot his sermon.

The wind moves through the slats,
the paint peels, the wood sags,
but he stays, unbothered, unblinking,
a doctrine of waiting, of nothing at all.

Below, the world trudges on,
a dog barks, a car door slams,
the sea grinds away at the shore—
all of it passing, passing.

This is how belief lingers—
not in light, not in grace,
but in what refuses to leave,
in what stands, long after it should.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

the posters scream LET’Z PARTY
but the sidewalk says fuck that.
she leans against the wall,
black crop top stamped FAKE,
chains swinging from her skirt,
boots laced high like battle armor.
studded choker tight around her throat,
a promise of restraint she dares to defy.

the photographer crouches,
camera shaking, hands too tight—
trying to catch her in the totality of his desires—
sharp, brilliant, untouchable.
the lens bends the moment,
shadows stretch over concrete,
but Fake doesn’t see him
not past the lens, not past the wanting.

what is fake if the moment is real?
what is real if the moment is lost?
she tilts her head, lips parted, an almost-smirk,
that flirts with invitation, but lands in indifference.
her eyes flickering past the lens, slipping through the frame,
leaving the photographer stranded in her self-regard.

he has already said too much
in the way he bows, head low, as if in prayer,
in the way she swallows his admiration.

and when Fake walks away—
because of course she will—
hips swinging, metal clinking,
her shadow stretching long in the heat,
she won’t turn back,
won’t see the camera lower,
won’t notice the photographer staring
at the empty space she leaves behind,
like a fool who thought
she ever could have been his.

Miami, Florida

Light spills from the mirrored dome,
cascading through a river of glass—
fish frozen mid-dance, corals aflame,
a swirling, weightless world
suspended between water and dream.

The incantation of the sea rises here,
woven in tendrils of sapphire and jade,
where a tangerine-striped fish, mouth agape,
hovers beside a cobalt bubble,
as if whispering the ocean’s oldest spell.

Beneath the coral’s outstretched fire,
the octopus curls in quiet knowing,
shifting between what is seen and unseen,
while the sea turtle drifts without hurry,
its shell a map of forgotten tides.

Above them, the manta ray glides,
dark wings spread like a whispered prayer,
turning as though it has forgotten
the difference between falling
and being held by the unseen.

And I stand beneath it all,
bathed in the shimmer of turquoise and gold,
listening for the hush of water,
the slow, steady thrum of the deep,
the spell of the sea unspooling into light.

Seascape (a one of the largest cruise ships in the Italian MSC fleet)

The truck rests,
a carcass of intention,
its frame dissolving into the ground
as snow recedes in slow apology.

Once, it was motion —
a vessel of thunder,
the promise of distance
held in the tension of gears.

Now, it inhabits stillness,
a geometry of decay,
the metal’s quiet erosion
a dialogue with time.

In its silent decay, there is a pride—
etched in every worn edge and dent.
A testament to labor well done,
with no regret shadowing a life of honest work.

Yet, in its ruin,
a persistence:
the shape of what was,
refusing to become less.

Peaks Island, Maine

Peaks Island, Maine

Oh No, Mr. Bill!

They dangle there,
Mr. Bill and his pink companion,
waiting to be chosen,
which is to say, waiting to be destroyed.

Cultural relic, TV clown, doomed icon,
built for suffering, sold for laughs,
still grinning like he doesn’t know
what always comes next.

Beside him, the pink beast,
a parody of menace,
its grin as empty
as the hands that will discard it.

Soon enough,
some grinning dog will take them,
shake them, shred them,
find the hidden squeaker
and silence it for good.

And that will be that.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

the bear is starving

but still massive

still full of teeth

still ready to tear something apart.

the ice drips off its back

like a bad joke,

melting down into the graffiti,

into the tags no one will remember.

somewhere, a man in a suit

counts money,

while the sky burns itself out

and the water keeps rising.

you can scream about it,

write a poem, paint a wall—

but the bear is still starving

while the world plays dead.

Miami Beach, Florida

Vogue Cleaners, 10 PM

The neon flickers,

hums like it’s thinking about dying.

Inside, rows of forgotten lives
hang stiff and silent,

waiting for owners
who aren’t coming back.

A wedding dress, its veil untouched,

waits as if time might change its mind.

Beside it, a funeral suit,
still stiff 
with a grief long spent.
A stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin, 
listens for the voice of its missing kid-

A priest’s robe with a flask

tucked in the folds,
a scarf still reeking of cheap perfume,
a tuxedo waiting for a night that has passed,
a silk dress with a bullet hole.

In their pockets
a phone number, a pressed flower,
a lottery ticket never checked,
a note unread,
an unopened pack of gum—

small, unspoken losses

filed neatly among the starch and steam.

Nobody asks questions

at the cleaners - 
some stories don’t get endings,

just receipts nobody claims-
the winter coat in summer,

the summer dress in winter.

Outside, the breeze shifts the weeds
against the curb - 
the last sweater never claimed.
No name, no tag,
just the weight of something once needed,
folded into the dark.


New Smryna Beach, Florida

Peaks Island, Maine

DADDY IS COLD

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.
Who would dare suppose such a thing?

The twitching id of perpetual need,

a litany of denials—

life itself, a fragile compassion.

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.
Who would dare suppose such a thing?

The twitching id, hungry, restless,

denying itself, devouring itself.
Nothing I do, nothing I feel,

feels like it did with you.


A litany of denials—

a shivering need—

life itself, an unanswered call.
A litany of denials.

Who would dare suppose such a thing?

Life itself—

DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.

Of all the things in this store—

packs of art supplies, joke collections,

a ceramic dish shaped like an alligator—

the kid chooses this.
A plastic possum, mid-smile, stuffed in a peanut,
wheels tucked beneath its shell,

a promise printed on the box:

Pull them back… Watch them go!

The kid grabs it off the shelf,

laughing like it’s the best thing in the world—
he holds it up to his dad, eyes full of wonder.

“Watch it go!” he says,

and with a flick of his hand,

the tiny wheels stutter across the counter.

I imagine a designer somewhere,

drafting the blueprint for this absurdity,

testing prototypes in a quiet room,

wondering if the world really needs it.

But the kid tugs at his dad’s sleeve,

laughing as the possum shudders forward.

And in this moment, yes,

the world needs exactly this.

Deland, Florida