New York Tyrant
I was walking home through downtown St. Pete, sweating badly.
This older guy crossed paths with me near a concrete ledge overlooking an area of creek.
'Man, goddamn it,' he said, stopping by me as though we'd already been talking.
I stopped too.
'This motherfucker….' he said, gesturing out somewhere.
He had faded tattoos and big, raw pock marks all over his arms.
In 1977, my parents bought a house on a busy street. The home fell inside of a half-square mile oddity of land and bureaucratic mishap that the locals called Skevanston. This real estate snafu allowed people like my parents to buy a better valued home in the city of Evanston’s school district while paying the town of Skokie’s lower property taxes. I came into the home in 1984, as the fourth child and only boy. Across the street from us was a large field loomed over by a tall tree that grew blackberries the size of cicadas. They rotted in...
That in four years I've gone to six art openings, three mine, one my wife's, two my best friends. Did you know that was possible? To just stay home and work?
I wanted to write a love poem
the most impossible thing
and I did
and it wasn’t hard
and afterward I took a walk
and nothing seemed hard.