Post the Twenty Eighth


Being a Local in New York City is
a relatively unheard of concept
that nearly every resident strives for.

To be recognized among millions,
and remembered for longevity in a neighborhood
is something that is difficult to achieve.

Especially people like me, who,
in their first four years of living here
moved 14 times in total, through every borough.

But I achieved it in one part of Brooklyn
and I’m so thankful for the family that that brings
to be a Local means you belong there.



Post the Twenty Seventh


That’s what happens
when I think about
life too hard
and the choices
that I made
that led me here
for how long,
I’m still not sure.

Cringes are left to
people who truly deserve them
the best ones
self inflicted
with the full sense of
disgust and disappointment.

Excuse me while I
wallow in a sea of pursed lips.

Post the Twenty Sixth


I make the monkeys clap
until all that remains is the echo
of intention. Swollen cymbal fingers
broken at the knuckles.

Little marsupials try to touch
me. I am the music from their masters
box. They think they hear me even when
the cranking stops.

Over-sized castanets fall with
laughter as the monkey jumps, thinking
the throat of their patron is mine.
Another job lost
because the Illusion can’t be killed.