On this day, 40 years ago, August 26th, 1979, my family stepped off a plane at JFK. On the way to our new hometown, Sparta, NJ, my father insisted we stop at the base of the World Trade Center towers. He was awed by the towers. And they were terrific, sure, but, coming from the…
I am resting. Watch. I am fluttering, you follow. Be wise when you chase.
What color are you? It depends on the light, no? Our hooks are in the mud.
Precious is you.Jade, ruby, amber opals.A fiend tugs within.
On winter nights, the sodium street lamps cast gashing shadows. They scribble on the cobblestones and walls through cables and wires that hang like abandoned nooses. A few restaurants welcome guests but many of the cafes are shuttered. A mist settles on the plastic-framed menus hanging beside the doors. Looking through a window, two local…
To the sea you run. I am bound for now and stay. One blue and one green.
In a flat I rest. My neighbor, her blooms are fresh. And the rich look down.
Standing riders shuffled around, equalizing the gap between themselves and everyone else.
None heard that the lines written for Hercule Poirot were delivered with a proper English tone. Nor did they care that the questions from her daughter were born of a place much closer to Kensington and Prospect Park than Kensington and Hyde Park.
It is easy to forget that this island’s flavor would not have happened if the Spanish hadn’t decimated the Taínos and imported West African slaves to replace them.
But today each has contributed practices, rituals and DNA which has been shaken, blended and muddled into a poignant, delicious, cocktail.