Days After

He awoke to the sound of the very last drops of a passing storm pattering against the small, single-pane window above the washer and the dryer that stood sequestered across from him in an alcove on the other side of the finished basement. "Rain," he whispered in the half-choked voice of morning. He lay motionless for a few moments trying to hold the remnants of his dream in memory, but they slipped farther into his unconscious with each exhalation. And so he lifted himself up on his elbows and, with one hand, rubbed each eye into focus. By the time he was up and dressed and standing in the kitchen with a small glass of water in one hand and the very end of a loaf of bread, just recently stale, with a thick smear of peanut butter across in the other, the sun was out and shining, the needle on the dial thermometer was climbing just past 80, and faint wisps of steam hung, nearly motionless, above the shrinking puddles of water that had collected in the low points of the driveway.

He passed an idle hour by listlessly drifting from one room to the next and back again. "Here I am," he thought to himself, "Home..."

I Live for 25 Years

Tonight I will close my eyes and dream of the three of us nestled beneath a mound of blankets, of floorboards creaking beneath stranger's footfalls, the clapboards and thin glass struggling to keep out the cold, of ancient cobwebs strung across eaves hidden in darkness.

I see the miles of rain-soaked highway that I have traveled. The cracked pavement I have walked. The rocks and trees I have climbed. I can feel the warmth of the sun, remembered. I relive a thousand idle afternoons. I see the smiling faces of those I have loved and who have loved me. I feel their fingers run slowly through my hair and come to rest on my chest.

Tonight I will sleep, immersed in the warmth of memory, alone.

Valentine's Day, 2012

The hole in the crotch of my jeans grows everyday in direct relation to the total accumulation of dust that sits on each of the fan's blades that hang idly in the air above a couch whose cushions collapse a little more each time I sit on them. And so I sit, marveling at the slow wasting away of everything that surrounds me; degradation and gradual failure. Nothing grows here. 

How long will I continue? When do I fray?

What is Sleep to the Ascetic?

Why do I linger on into these darkened hours?
Shades drawn, windows shuttered, animals sleep
Ceiling-borne lights shut off, lamps are favored now.

Why do I hunt and search these too-bright screens?
These curled, cream pages?

For fantasies, with which I stanch my memory's flow.
Or for knowledge with which to advise action I am too afraid to take.

Why else ask a question one already knows the answer to, if not to delay?

Trouble

Somewhere in France. August, 2011

Zeppelinfeld Kickflip

Nürnberg, Germany. August, 2011.

Creem Crew

Michael. Brooklyn, New York. January, 2011