The Wonders of the Waterfront.
Name it. What is this place called?
He is sitting on the curb with his backpack on, a little grubby from the streets and having just woken up. He is watching his 'girl' accept a couple of dresses she has asked for. Her eyes are big and lit up. It's the way he is smiling at her. There is tenderness. There is something like deep appreciation for this moment of her receiving something she wanted. And responding to her joy.
I see the look and I wonder how we would all be transformed if there was someone that would look at us with this regard. And there was no hope of getting the camera. It was a moment that could not be interrupted by being seen any more than it was.
Name it. What is this place called?
Love. It is called love.
Even though it wears disguises and sometimes I don't recognize it at first.
What do you have to do here?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Thank you Dear Anonymous, thank you.
They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though...
Dear Anonymous,
They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though. They smoke. Share a light.
Coffee cards. Coffee cake. Socks. A shirt here. A sweatshirt there. Some eczema cream for his hands. A belt. Any pants? No pants. Any backpacks? No backpacks.
'Any books?' the Reader asks.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I may have books.
I show the photograph of that young blue eyed man to the young blue eyed man. He smiles. Then he shows me the color variations in his eyes. A tad of yellow here he says. A tad amber down here. The man knows his eyes.
Many regulars are not here. It's the first few days of the month. Checks come in. Jingle enough for a moment. Rooms to rent for a night or two. Addictions to feed. Pains to soothe. Things to do.
May they know some peace and may I never assume what that may look like.
she was never able to move forward with that idea
she was never able to move forward with that idea
Part of what calls me to this bulb over and over is that it is suspended directly above the horizon line...
Part of what calls me to this bulb over and over is that it is suspended directly above the horizon line that is the location of a power plant. I think of all the lines running from there to here. Here to there. Lines. Lines in the air. Lines underground. Tesla, are you rolling in your grave?
The candle was still lit. Police Station. Portland, Maine.
The candle was still lit. Police Station. Portland, Maine.
Outside the Portland Maine Police Station there was a sidewalk filled with protest signs. Not trash...
Outside the Portland Maine Police Station there was a sidewalk filled with protest signs. Not trash. Intentionally arranged. Signs that read: Black Lives Matter. Silence = Violence. There were signs from allies. Signs of frustration. Signs of anger. Signs of condolences and grief.
Around the corner lying on the sidewalk are two slightly wobbly looking, somewhat tattered and torn origami paper cranes next to a wilted lilac blossom. They appear wounded. I was wrong. They were perfect.
Next to the Police Station in Portland Maine at 5 AM the candles are still lit...
Next to the Police Station in Portland Maine at 5 AM the candles are still lit. There is no one here except for news teams. A wee street memorial for grief. Below it posters are scattered. Black Lives Matter. RIP George Floyd. Say Their Names. Silence = Violence. It's 5 AM and the candles remain lit.
There were flowers laying amidst the signs. Bouquets of roses, tulips, lilacs. They were limp. Some were trampled...
There were flowers laying amidst the signs. Bouquets of roses, tulips, lilacs. They were limp. Some were trampled. I think of those that thought to bring flowers. And of those that no longer can. Of the candles I see lined up here and there. Of names written out, George Floyd the most prevalent amongst them. But there are many names I can't even remember or recall, all dead. They are not on the tip of my tongue and have been lost down a congested sewerage like newsfeed. And how miserable is this? Thank you to those that wrote those names. Who removed silence.
I will not say 'I was swept away.' even though I thought it.
I will not say 'I was swept away.' even though I thought it.
A chain link fence says 'Stop'. You say, 'Hold my beer.'
A chain link fence says 'Stop'.
You say, 'Hold my beer.'
And the glamour of my wandering would lead me to...
And the glamour of my wandering would lead me to...a horses' ass. Whether it's gods' sense of humor or mine, what's the difference? So in it together.
From the You Cannot Make This Sh** Up Category.
From the You Cannot Make This Sh** Up Category.
This morning all I can think is 'I'd love to see that balletic fox I encountered a couple of days ago again'. I know the faultiness of returning this way. Things never repeat themselves but still that crone-voiced muse insists, Go. I park my car and walk, camera ready this time. The field is quiet but for the flitting of all the songbirds I am displacing. The sun rises above the harbor but beneath the bridge from this vantage.
No fox, of course.
I return to my car but at the foot of the fox path left from the other day I find this.
I kid you not.
A dog toy in the shape of a....fox.
Complete with eviscerated squeaker.
The scene transforms. You would see a crazy woman bent over at first light by the river...examining her fox. Literally laughing out loud. Literally. She looks around to see if god is somehow hidden behind a bush just waiting for the moment.
Oh, Lord, you do have such a great sense of humor.
I'll be more specific next time.
Making sense seemed a forgotten something.
Making sense seemed a forgotten something.
And it can come to this. All your stuff dumped out like bowels on the side of a hunter's hill.
And it can come to this. All your stuff dumped out like bowels on the side of a hunter's hill.
This is Levi the Leopard when I first met him 4 years ago at Hobo Jungle on West Commercial Street...
This is Levi the Leopard when I first met him 4 years ago at Hobo Jungle on West Commercial Street. A large 10 acre plot on the river was being developed. Prior to development it was a woodsy area that housed a homeless community. There were fire pits and sitting areas and mattresses and tents. Left behind were the remains to be seen. Old clothing. Shoes. Brassieres. Baby toys. Pots and pans. Then the area was clear cut and bulldozed. And filled. And one early winter day I found Levi in the rubble. Brought him home. Washed him in 'the magic bubble machine' a few times. He was torn and tattered and split and scarred. But he was a beauty. All I could imagine was the child I presumed who may have lost him and the community that they were separated from. But that's my story.....
The Secret Life of a Tulip
The Secret Life of a Tulip
I wouldn't soon forget but if I did I could count on you to help me remember.
I wouldn't soon forget but if I did I could count on you to help me remember.
And then this little beauty. No hot house cultivation here. No greenhouse. No attempt...
And then this little beauty. No hot house cultivation here. No greenhouse. No attempt to market or sell or propagate in suburbia. Tiny. The plant is less than 2" high overall. The blossom maybe 1/8 inch. Covers the hill I trudge up at dawn. And. It. Bloomed.
I repeated myself, worried she had trouble hearing me...
I repeated myself, worried she had trouble hearing me,
'Tell me how this is not miraculous?'
And she stood silent.