Slam Baby. Stay Mad.

Wind so cold but we turned a corner to jump and scream and dance, our minds already racing with decorations and potted plants and warm spring days spent in that courtyard, while the official stance was that nothing is set until you hold those keys in your hand. The lunch consisted mostly of bubbly flutes and It really is the best neighborhood, after all. The waiters thought their place was too nice for just anybody and were very pleased when the Big Name chose them for his sandwich needs.

A long way east and it's poetry slam night on the Alphabet Avenues. We sit at the bar; I stare intently at the worn wood to see the poets' words dance along it. Some parts are shiny, some parts are dull. Tips amass along it; the bartender stacks it, or not, according to some system no one understands, perhaps not even himself. The words echo through the high ceilings, forever repeated in the brick wall, sometimes forgotten, and I hope you brought your mojo tonight. Bobbing to the beat.

We have different ways of getting where we're going. The important thing is to get on your feet. The zippers on my shoes clink clink all the way down Morton. My fiery lungs and I go to sleep, but only on paper.