Footprints No. 520
No amount of time accounts for the words they spoke to one another on that day. September prior; expressionless, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And when they said them, they intended them wholly. That’s what he had thought anyway. Not until long afterward did he understand that he had wanted her. He still did — but, it was too late. It was too fucking late.
— Fall 2013
They’re not empty rooms. If someone’s never been in a room, it’s empty, but, if someone’s lived in a room it seems crowded with that person.The FBI Story
Footprints No. 746
Leather-skin mulls outside the market, planted squarely in a parking space. Beside him a sedan pulls into another empty space. He shrugs under the weight of the tattered army-pack slung over his shoulder.
Heat flutters over asphalt.
The driver door opens. Paying the bum no mind, the merchant removes himself from his low seat. The leather man turns up his wandered eyes. The merchant scoffs and enters the store.
With a click the passenger door opens. The gentleman leans into his low seat and produces a black carton from his shirt-pocket. Shouting — a shadow within the face of the palliative box.
He glances left, no one there.
Can you spare —
On his right, there is leather-skin standing feet away.
Fi’ty-s’ven cents sir?
Curious — the gentleman retains composure. Raised his brow, drew a slender shadow from the carton and steps one foot out the door. Leather-skin waits, eyes wandering.
From different empty space.
The gentlemen pursed his lips, pulls the shadow slow.
I’ve got nothing — that’s why I’m in the car.
Shade coils from his nose.
Footprints No. 235
Under the copper of the Gallery he finds himself seated at a tall table. Against the wall dead musicians hang by glittering canvas’, diffusing in the glow. They are trapped, just like he is; there is toil that comes with such mild imprisonment — incarcerated within some faded facial expression.
— Summer 2013
That’s what she says—but what a woman says to a passionate lover ought to be scribbled on wind, on running water.Catallus
Footprints No. 234
Stood in that frail moment. The type of silence human beings share with one another for the purpose of one another. The man was resolute. Sunk his forehead into his palms. Behind them, some amber traffic signal flashes evenly outside the window pane. He made his way down the narrow and scarlet stair that lead into the frore night. Bleak melody quietly passes through the glass, pursues him out onto the late and deserted avenue.
— Fall 2012