• Moon Tells All

    In tune with the weight of the moon
    Even in the morning there is light
    A way to pass into the realm of waves
    If I stare hard into the twisted shapes
    Sense can be made of a day
    Sense can be derived from a universe of misalignment
    Turn the malformed mass on its side
    A new birth awaits every solitary station
    Look into the eyes of a statue
    A soul is frozen in every stone
    Look deep into the eye of dear moon
    She is telling us we’re not quite alone
    She is telling us there is solace in cyclical motion
    Telling us the story of all incantations
    That the bright shines behind our eyes

  • Islands in the Street

  • Cyclist Hit By Car

    I see the cyclist propelled through the Summer air.
    His Brooklyn frame lands with a fleshy thud.
    He slowly arises with a passive aggressive smirk.
    The perpetrator checks the state of his van first.

  • Socrates Versus Muse

    The muse are often a flighty band. Some days they flitter about in far away neighborhoods. Others they will hover in silent stares, casting shadows on my tombstone, withholding all information, letting one think. The inflicted occupation of thinking has caused many a malfeasance. In this neighborhood it spells death. The friction of the feet must generate enough heat to keep the children from freezing. The reflex must be honed as the switchblade sidearm is, ready to strike with fists of hardened bone. To stop and figure is a gesture to the predators of submission. A confident tone and sharp intuition goes a long way here. We are the warriors of understanding, letting the information wash over when it rains, following the patterns that it paints for our sake. And when the sun shines in its unsettling silence, we wait.

  • Peel steel

    Kingston brick yard

    From a series of photos shot at the Kingston brick yard and Tilcon concrete facility—private industrial wasteland