Gary Percesepe

Everyone who has ever left New York signs their presence with a trace. The trace is the signature of what escapes when you absent yourself, when you’ve ghosted the city but marked your X in all the old familiar places which will now dream your dreams, disrupt your presence, and haunt your comings and goings

Ghosts Years ago, I found a picture of my mother and father with their first-born son. Tommy is perhaps two years old, balanced on my father’s knee. All three look straight at the camera and smile, dressed in their fifty’s finery. They appear to be in a photography studio, posing for a family portrait. But

Bodies matter, the way they break open, the way fluids spill. In my dream she stands at the foot of my bed wearing a half-smile, her nose twitching, her hands holding a wine opener. Say her name.  She lies on top of me on the white couch in the living room watching Breaking Bad; the

Gabrielle pulls up to a Conoco gas station. “I need to use the restroom. You need anything?”