Is it just me or do you also see about thousand maps of Italy every time you look down at the pavement in Lower Manhattan? I’m talking about puddle formations, indentations, sedimentations, wear and tear, even fucking tossed 7-Eleven nacho wrappers. They all look like this: or this: No, I don’t smoke weed. Not much […]
A thousand boots, by Joe Caccamo Read More »
THE RACE IS ON I moved to Venice yesterday. A woman smiled at me as I walked into Café Gratitude. I bought a pyrite crystal at a yoga center on Lincoln I happened by on my walk home. Pyrite is supposed to be a protective stone, blocking out negative energies and repairing any tears in
Fragments of life, Short Stories by Joe Caccamo Read More »
The blank page I begin to fill with these words reminds me of the emptier streets, shops and restaurants in the Town of East Hampton, as we task ourselves with Christmas tree removal, thank you notes, sending sons and daughters back off to college with, we hope, warm, newly formed memories and greater appreciation for
