A Writer grows in Brooklyn

Fountains of the lukewarm, we drink each day. Tepid coffee, morning exchanges, countdowns until Friday. It’s barely nine in the morning on Monday and the target is to get to the end of the week. Another end. Time—time is relative, I’ve been told. I guess that’s why some days can feel so fleeting while others seem so slow. My surroundings are filled with faded photos, beaten carpet, and desks…

Fountains of the lukewarm, we drink each day.  Tepid coffee, morning exchanges, countdown’s until Friday. It’s barely 9 in the morning on Monday and the target is to get to the end of the week. Another end.  Time, time is constant, I’ve been told. How come some days can feel so fleeting while others can seem so slow? The world is in a state of entropy. The earth is forever in motion, but the…

I wrote some words for her, some rhymed and some didn’t – but they each had a purpose and ended with a meaning or answers to some questions. We shared some wine, got physical drinking in a stew brewed with physicality and a spirituality from another dimension. In a hotel room, behind a tree in the park and overlooking the city behind a wall on a rooftop.It Fell Apart

We take the hard road because it’s who we are and we live by our truth. I could’ve been so many other people, but I chose myself instead.Look Down, No Fear

We know who we are.  Or at least we think we do at this moment.  We walk alone because we prefer our own company.  We photograph images of discarded items left stranded on the pavement.  We keep them as reminders of…some sort of artistic inspiration. We know who we want to be.  The road has bumps, potholes, discarded dreams, hopes and memories, it makes it hard to keep on going.  An open…

We know who we are.  Or at least we think we do at this moment.  We walk alone because we prefer our own company.  We photograph images of discarded items left stranded on the pavement.  We keep them as reminders of…some sort of artistic inspiration. We know who we want to be.  The road has bumps, potholes, discarded dreams, hopes and memories, it makes it hard to keep on going.  An open…

The junkyard melody plays softly with a passion once felt, a long long time ago. They put you out to pasture and forgot about your past. The ticking of the clock gets louder with each passing moment. The relevancy of who you are, who you were and who you never can be; lost in the shadows of this junkyard in the city. Walk towards the discarded record player and the scratched records. Place one on…

Another day on the F train turns into a 95-degree mess. The sun doesn’t shine in the subway stations—yet. George Harrison wrote, “Here comes the sun,” but this past winter has felt like a long, cold, lonely one. Standing on the Hoyt Street platform waiting for the A or C, I find myself thinking about just running away. There is a pretty, well-dressed woman standing next to me. I smile at her.…

I’ve been writing. Quietly, consistently, the way I’ve always done it — one word at a time, one story at a time.If you’ve been away for a while, welcome back. If you’ve been here all along, thank you. Either way, I wanted to reach out personally and share a few pieces that mean something to me.Here’s what I’ve been working on:Of Time, Love and…

We take so much for granted. The people around us we treasure, we forget how quickly, the sights, the sounds, the aroma of her, the feel of her skin, the taste…That first cup of coffee in the morning, that sense of excitement for a new day, the evenings with a full moon and the sounds of summer. The sound of a snowstorm blowing through the trees, the silence that follows. The diamond and the…

Music has always been a vital part of my life—a way to express my mood or navigate my feelings at any given time. While I appreciate the wordless genius of John Coltrane and Duke Ellington, I’ve always been drawn to lyrics. I grew up on a steady diet of Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles, and Elton John. The Backdrop of Brooklyn I was born in 1966 in Brooklyn, New York, arriving smack in…

She stares…at nothing in particular. Focused on thoughts, fears and memories. He shakes and shouts…at this world gone wrong. Focused on the negativity that can drown a whale. She drinks her tea, he drinks his coffee. He sees her from across the room, somehow he is calmed. He walks towards her, throws an embrace and kisses her head. “A penny for your thoughts?”“A penny? How about ten dollars a…