Gratitude, Year III

Do you have the time? he says innocently, but I see in his fidgeting fingers that he is asking something else completely. I'm only riding the J for one stop, but it's the long one across the bridge, so we chat about the holidays, about family and who we are. He stares at me with deep eyes and long lashes, as a brilliant afternoon sun reflects off the Brooklyn navy yard. Are you from New York? I ask, and all he says is I am now. 

The Thanksgiving feast is immense, of course, beautiful and overwhelmingly filling. The child holds every one of our hearts in her chubby hands and is delighted. She runs across the rooftop at sunset, Manhattan spreading out at her feet and I fear she won't remember this was all hers once. They leave early, we continue to get drunk and make light of our gratitudes. I sing until my knees tremble and must spend the whole next day writhing in shame. I only barely made it out of the cab without passing out. But I do not forget the day, what it means.

This year,
to my very core,
I am grateful for New York.
For being back here,
when I thought perhaps
I never would be.
For being able to take
these streets
for granted, again,
and for the fact that I never forget
what a treasure that is.
I am grateful for the beautiful people
who remained here
and welcomed me back,
and for those across the lands
and oceans
who will remain still
when I turn to them
with my broken bones again. 
I am grateful for the words
and souls
and streets
that have not yet given up on me,
even when I already have, myself.

I don't know what I would do without you.
And this year,
I am grateful I don't have to.

Texts

Sometimes it's hard to keep that promise: to stay off the ledge, she says, and I know she means it. Is this what life is, day after day?

The weather warms up again, a monster of a rain storm drags slowly across the state and makes the dog nervous. I go to the store in preparation for the Great Holiday of food, and let myself indulge in mini pointsettias and glitter, as well. It is almost here. The first night I plug the Christmas window lights in, I leave them as I fall asleep. I get up in the middle of the night to turn them off, open the radiator valve.

Perhaps this city can keep me off that bridge, at least for a while.

At least until I figure out if there's anything else that life can be.

With Wind Chill

The temperatures plummet. We sit in the apartment with all the radiators open to no avail: the steam doesn't come on. I shiver down to my wool socks and hooded sweaters. There is still a great space where the window doesn't fully close around the A/C unit. She writes to say the door blew off the restaurant. It is winter.

It occurs to me some days that this life is more questions than answers. That I can look into the eyes of these people I call home, and be more lost than ever. That in the safe arms of their warm laughter I can shiver worse than in the November winds. It was so cold walking home last night I thought I might not make it at all. These things happen.

Today was just as cold. But I had only myself to talk to about it, and I wasn't much paying attention.

That seemed easier.

215th St Blues

A half moon hangs over the city tonight, crystal clear in the black sky and the winds chill you to the bone. The first morsels of snow washed across the island but were gone in the blink of an eye; the dog was not pleased. We sat at a football game at the unknown ends of Manhattan and felt America wash over us in the time outs. Fourteen years ago the Friday night lights meant everything, and you shiver in rememberance. America. Six years ago in Texas everyone knew you did not belong, but oh, how warm the night, how thick the sky with crickets. They crowded around the floodlights; two dollars at the window, and the home team won.

I woke this morning with the viciousness of a dream lingering on my brow. How blurry the vision, until I saw what had been written across your face for ages. The betrayal stung all day. I thought it might go away, eventually. We spent the evening playing games, warming our freezing skin with silly competition, and the dog scowled when I only came home for a minute, to walk him. The company much sweeter than the night was cold. I walked home from the subway station shivering. It is winter now, it just happened.

I'm sorry I made you angry; I didn't mean that. I just woke this morning with such a tragic reminder, and I want you all to feel as wretched as I do. Passing every local stop and itching to get out. Or in, but how unlikely. I picked up a ginkgo leaf on the stoop in my drunken stumble. Bright yellow, as though the greatest beauty appears right as we accept defeat. Right as we give in to death.

The moral of the story
should not
be
that.

Circadian

I have trouble going to sleep lately. I stay up late writing terrible drivel, as the lights of the courtyard go out one by one. Watch the full moon climb across the top of my window. Sleep heavy sleeps at last, dreaming of summer sun and bare skin but I miss my alarm and drag myself heavy out of bed in the late morning. I walked home from 35th street last night and the winter wind is so mild up there amidst the never-fading lights and buffering sky skrapers.

A package came from my mother yesterday: the winter clothes and trinkets that didn't fit in my suitcase when I first arrived. What a treasure trove of a box, a reminder that there was more to me than the few folds of laundry currently placed in my drawers. There is more to me than the few details revealed in a month of New York. We are built of more stories than can fit in a resume, or a first date. I am perpetually proving myself.

Perhaps if I write enough ridiculous pages,
at some point the real story
will show.

If I Go to Sleep

The west village is so quiet at 1:30 am on a Sunday. It sleeps, it waits. I keep my window open and listen to the wind. The clouds turn the night sky into a peach-colored blanket. There's a window across the courtyard where the lights are on. I wonder what they do for a living.

He wrote today to tell me he misses my body, but he is only talking at himself and it doesn't matter what I reply. They go to the bar still, and how I miss it, but that town seems endlessly far away now. It's hard to remember how it felt. It was never quiet at night. 

Things I have loved

I'm allowed

To keep. 

I keep you

close

as ever. 

Nobody needs to know. 

Play List

Thank you, V.

A War

Times Square is garish and cold, for all its glitter; the languages don't fit your city and you look away. Walk too many flights to the top and a tiny theater lies at your feet. Perhaps the show doesn't fill its own shoes but you love the hushed mumbles and spotlights regardless. The moon is nearly full. It makes its way across the night sky as kids run amok in the streets. We build a tab, and for a minute I thought she would cry, but it was all saved at the last minute. Free museum tickets stow away in your back pocket; you thank the city for its graciousness. 

You thank the city for everything. 

The dog barks when you get home. It's only because of the late hour; you thought the bar would have closed by now. The sirens are still up and at 'em. You read old journal entries and smile at youth. But at the core, a kernel of unwavering truth. This was always the one place. He texts in giggles. You take the city to bed. 

Wake with a smile in your heart. 

Smith & 9th

I thought of you today, I couldn't help myself. Something in the cold autumn air, perhaps, the sounds of a waking ciy, it reminded me. Of having the air knocked out of me that night, in the middle of the playground and I couldn't will myself to walk home. You have a way of smiling into the table but not into anyone's eyes. I wonder how fall is treating you. Mine is a dream. 

Perhaps I'm glad you are a million miles away. There's a new air in my lungs now, and oh but it's easy to breathe.

There's a part before the park where the F train runs above ground. In the early morning, when the rails turned, the sunlight streamed through the windows and woke me. It was, perhaps, the best part of this day.

Cold Out There

Bob Dylan on the F train, and the remains of red wine on your lips in the late morning. Send him your book, she said, he's a really good critic.
You have to show it to someone, you know. 

I scribble notes in the underground:

"The days pass in freezing sunshine and late night ramblings; what little money there is slowly builds piles in your corners, and you sleep with hope.

For one, short moment, everything is exactly as you hoped your entire life would be.
You don't know what to do with that.
You decide to smile."

(and the moment I wrote it, I knew it was true.)

Enfin

A day passes in words. All morning I stall and fiddle but it's part of the process. Anyone who can write poetry before noon has us all fooled. (as though what you are writing is poetry, you scoff, but nevermind.) They seep in through unseen channels and fall out of your fingers, the words, when they come. Your computer is too old to keep up, and the keys give up one by one, until you are pounding away to make even the shortest prepositions. Lord knows it still beats writing by hand, because no one would know they story you tell, not even you yourself and what is the point of falling in a forest if ain't nobody there to hear you go?

Soon, too soon, it is well past midnight and the lights across the courtyard are all turned out. You see the shapes of clouds like purplish specters over the brick buildings. The trees have all lost their leaves now, except the gingkos on Leroy Street: they wash the entire street in a bright yellow blanket and play pretend at being their own sunshines. Fashion bloggers delight.

They call from the motherland; Sundays were always the day for catching up. The baby grows, your heart twists in longing, but when they ask you how you are, you say fine, because there aren't words enough for how good they really are.

You failed at every
single
thing you ever hoped for
and dreamed of
except this
one
thing.

And it makes all the difference.

Marathon

He followed a girl to New York once. 
I don't think it ended well.

Do you remember that summer; you kept saying this couldn't be the end and why couldn't you come to the City with me, and I think I must have laughed in your face. I am sorry for that. I would do it again.

I tell her not to take any relationship advice from me. To enjoy his company, whatever comes of it.
I will pick the city
every time.
I am not to be trusted
with hearts. 

Late

As the cab crossed the Manhattan Bridge to Chinatown,
and the skyskrapers of the southern tip shone and glittered
draped by the Brooklyn bridge lights
and the Empire State building to the north
had that white sheen on
visible through every avenue,
and the open windows let in the cool November air
and street sounds
all I could think was

I love this City
so much
it actually
hurts

N 7th and Bedford

The view of the Manhattan skyline is breathtaking. From the bathtub you see the Freedom Tower changing colors like a Times Square spectacle. When she came here as a squatter, there was nothing, you know. Just an empty factory and somebody got locked in on the first night. Everybody wishes they got in before it was clean.

You leave the rickety building at last and the winter wind whips you in the face. You are drunk. Make your way through the Bedford street crowds; another hipster weaving inebriated through the streets, pay no mind. Follow the waves to the L train. You would never see them normally but oh, the Marcy Avenue trains don't run like they should. Blame the storm for your inconvenience. You stare at your feet through the tunnel to keep from throwing up on your neighbor before 3rd avenue. Suddenly deposited at 14th street, you haven't the patience to wait for a connection.

The scent of fried oil at Five Guys as you turn the quaint corner on Barrow, and despite the drunk crowds, despite the trash day piles in the street, you realize: this one moment is worth the ridiculous rent. There is nowhere else you can call Home like this, and your every argument is rendered invalid. Trip on the curb but find your keys at the last minute: this city is not so much the dream as it is the only thing that makes sense. There is nothing rational about it.

You realize it is love.

Nobody Said It Was Easy

The world is built by people like you. They have their dreams all lined up and they will change the way it even revolves on its own axle. They swear they will. And until they do, they will carry on all those menial tasks that no one else can be bothered with because they are not part of any wise career ladder. Most of them will end up carrying that torch forever, of course. Most people will not change the world. They simply keep it running. You will stand there at the end, your withered dream in hand, and wonder what became of all the things you thought you could have.

She writes to say she booked a concert. She found a venue, her list of potentials is long. It is 4 a.m. and she doesn't care that morning brings a Real World and a Real Job. It turns out, this was what she was supposed to be doing all along, but we knew that. This isn't the happy ever after, this is just another depressing reminder. I read Sylvia Plath on the train and hide the cover; it feels like too much of a cliché. You feel more like Bukowski. You begin to fear it shows. Sometimes he smiles in pictures.

You decide not to die, yet.
There must be 

some reason
for all this.

Beyond a smile 

In a picture. 

pome

Tap
tap
tap
the keyboard
keys
fall off
one by one

I am powerless
to save them

as my bank account
dwindles
and winter
draws
near.

Oh, Sandy

My characters fight across the pages. They upend years of dissatisfaction and regret on the other's vulnerable skin and they watch the acid eat away until all that remains of a love is blood and tears. My fingers fly across the keyboard for it, there is something there. But the minute things calm down and the actual story supposedly begins, my mind grows dull. I trudge and struggle across the vast landscape of the White Page, and for every anguished line, I think is this really what I'm meant to be doing? But there isn't an answer to such a question. The stakes are too high.

I know we need to talk about it, she says over beers on a quiet night, but I just don't dare to ask him. It was not the life they had promised each other, but you've always got something to lose, if you gamble.

Perhaps we all live our lives afraid of the answers. It is easy enough to live without question. It is easy enough to live like what if.