Love Prose: from sessions in the balcony

The best part is the wild part.
This is when you dance on the edge of being caught, or you do something forbidden because it feels good. This is the part that makes your hearts thump when you see each other.
It is the reason why she followed you into the back room where no one else goes, but the possibility of someone rushing in and opening the door at any minute stirs you both into the excess of each other’s flesh.

This is why your kiss rolls her eyes into the back of her head and her body falls limp into your arms. This is why she submits to you, and this why you cannot think of anything else but Continue reading

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The first snowstorm of 2015

The snowfall began early this morning, but the real storm has yet to begin. As I write to you, the hour of daylight has passed, the street is empty, and everything is covered with snow.
The lights from windows inside the neighboring homes all shine in a way that only comes during wintery moments. They shine through window curtains with a soft, yellowish glow, which describes an inside warmth to oppose the outside temperature.
The streetlamps stand in place and light the street with a halo around the head of its glowing body. The snow is falling heavy and coming down in an angle, but overall, the worst is yet to come.

The weatherman says to prepare for Continue reading

Music from The Record Store

The songs I love most are songs that were written long ago. They have history to me. They connect me to different periods of my life and give depth to the times which I keep in the archives of my memory.
I remember a winter day from my youth. It was cold and rainy. I decided to take a walk to the record store because there was nothing else to do. There was no one else around—and even if there were—no one was interested in walking in the rain.

I was young and my hair was somewhere between boyish and bowl-cut to becoming decidedly long. This was not an easy thing for my parents. They did not like long hair. Most of all, they did not like long hair on me. They did not like the way long hair looked. They said the did not like what it represented . . . but I did.
I was Continue reading

Billy’s Picture: You Would Never Know By Looking At Him

Out of respect for anonymity, names and situations have been slightly changed to protect the not-so-innocent . . .

Billy was a tall, soft-spoken man with a curly bowl of salt and peppered hair. He wore a mustache, which was grayer than the hair on his head. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and he always dressed casual. He was gentle and bear-like. I never saw him lose his temper and I never heard him speak aggressively about anyone. Billy was content to be exactly who he was—a kind, middle-aged photographer who lived on 28th Street in Manhattan’s Flower District.

No one would ever know by looking at him. No one would ever think he was once a drunk and no one would ever know about the twenty years he drank or why he chose to live that way.

Billy invited me over to his studio after Continue reading

Junkie Poetry

Small flame heats the spoon
which holds the key to an ongoing romance.

. . . . It seems as if yesterday has been gone for decades
only, you never noticed this
. . . . because you got lost in your own machine

Your eyes shut down to the half-mass nod
your body hovers, weightless,
drifting in the loft of a gentle seclusion
and it’s, “Us against them,”
because no one understands but us.
Am I right?
Continue reading

the glass in hand

Like anything else, the night always starts off with the best of intentions.
It begins with a phone call to a group of friends and plans for a much needed night of madness and redemption. And it’s good to feel this way.
It helps us rebel against the boredom and stagnant lives that would otherwise plague a mundane existence.

So it begins . . .
The first drink of the night finishes with a satisfied, “AHHHH!”
This is the perfect exhale after a long day, or better, this is the perfect release after a long week, and in that exclamation point of an exhale, It marks the beginning of a celebration, which we pay for in full.
In that Continue reading

Boys Will Be Boys

It was an early morning in the town of Garden City. The sunrise had already begun and the empty winter braches of rounded-shaped trees were like black veins in the eye of a bloodshot sun. There were no clouds above my town to project the colors of dawn—there was only a soft pink hue extending across the horizon with fringes of purple at the edge of its reach. Morning was in full swing and the night before was at its end.

After a long night in the city, I drove home Continue reading