Meet Gasoline

Sixth avenue, Friday afternoon, the wide street buzzing with anticipation. Groups of policemen chatting amongst themselves, workers lining the sidewalk with barricades. On side streets, the floats are being assembled. A woman in a cat costume passes, little children in furry one-pieces and ethereal wings. He writes from across the oceans in exclamation points and exhaustion. Your heart dances in his smile, remembers what it is what it is to love something until you collapse. In your gut lie so many puzzle pieces. 

You wonder what glue will piece them together at last. 

Take It Off

The tome of collected poems is faded along the spine. It spent all summer in my window. Newer paperbacks lie strewn around the room, piles upon piles of paper, and notebooks, and post-its. I am not, without these collections of ink.

I fear I have spoken too much of my love for them, have waxed poetic in too many useless social situations and diluted the power they have over my muscles. That the idea of being a writer somehow became more important than actually being one. That I was too tempted by peoples' adoring eyes to remember they are not the prize, nor reason enough to fight.

An old neighbor came to visit today; he stood on my stoop and greeted me like a dear friend. This neighborhood was always too nice, I lived here but couldn't afford to do anything, you know? His new spot in the East Village was a little noisier, perhaps, without a stoop and the walls so thin, but it was his now, and was ready to love it. I think perhaps I have sunk so far into this neighborhood, that I will never know how to leave. Feel the moss grow between my toes.

Constantly expect the earth to erupt beneath me.

From the Chandelier

The silence has avoided me. It scurries away into unreachable corners while my days rage in overflowing appointment books. I run alongside the Red Queen and watch the landscape stand entirely still. It will catch up, a haunting voice repeats in the back of my head. When at last it arrives, does it not bring a month worth of venomous sludge with it, sinking into my every pore and drowning me in its thick dark matter? I scrub the bathroom tiles until my fingers bleed, my lungs give out, I turn the music up and draw out the demons from their hiding places, watch them yawn and stretch until they are ready to dance.

There were so many kind faces on the screen today, so many voices weighing in and offering their support, or their words of warning. You can look to others for answers all you like; the life, in the end, is yours alone to live. The evening grows cold. I wrap myself in layers of chain mail, feel the heavy, cold metal bear down on my skin, and the lightness that comes with it. Once again I've gotten so close to the wide and straight path, the correct steps, once again I've tasted the fresh air of a life on the inside.

But I recognize myself more with grime under my fingernails. Dance better with the foul ghosts of mildewy margins. There's a kerosene storage in my gut.

I am done trying to do the right thing.

It is time to burn this whole place
to the ground.

Tracks

The next manhattan bound L train will depart in approximately, eight minutes.

I never ride the train into Brooklyn anymore. What is there left here for me to see? I remember a summer, years ago and Williamsburg was a different place then, except exactly the same. I just don't have anyone to visit anymore. 

I walked up fifth avenue to work today, such bone-chilling cold creeping into my senses but the air clear and the view of the Empire State uncluttered. So many times I lose my footing and it remains, unwavering, to remind me of my purpose with this life and with this city. 

You are here to love the city

And to write. 

As long as you do that, 

You are winning the war. 

I am ready

to resume my place

in the battlefield. 

Starlight

Running will be good for your writing, he says, all that oxygen to your brain. I stared out across the New Jersey skyline, the pier freezing cold and empty. Deep breaths ran through my body and cleared out the dredges of a day, of a week. But he is wrong, I thought.

Perhaps age has calmed the rages of my inner turmoil. My demons cozy up in quiet corners and pay me no attention;  I miss them violently. Friends from faraway arrive in the city with their ringed fingers and neatly arranged lives and I forget to remember it was not what I wanted. I don't know why I fight so hard for things that were never mine to own. If it isn't broken, don't fix it.

I fear broken was best
I'd ever get.

But I Am.

It rains. Great torrential downpours that travel into the courtyard like waterfalls. There's a soft rush to the water, not like October weather at all but like summer rain the kind that makes you laugh and run in it until your clothes stick to your skin and it doesn't matter. The ether frazzles, there's static on the line and you paint the silence in dark colors. It's been so warm this week and November seems improbable. I don't have the answers.

I was hoping you might.

Taken

I swear I can be better
I could be more
to you

My father calls. He lies in a bed in his own father's house. We speak of life and what we are making of it.

You can do better, he says, and you will not be satisfied until you do. It doesn't take a genius to see he is right, but sometimes it takes a while for truths to sink in. You've known all along, if you think about it. There's a quiet moment as a cool autumn wind settles in the Village, pieces begin to fall into place. I write lists, finally, the impending days of my life dancing before me like Sylvia Plath quotes and I love them infinitely, dripping off my tongue into dark October nights and I just know it will all be alright.

I don't know why you've been so quiet for so long. I'm sorry. A piece of my tooth fell out today, like a bad dream. What is it they say it means, when you dream of losing teeth? I imagine riches or despair but in the end it comes down to holding out for dental insurance.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

Better, you think quietly to yourself. Yes, this is the time for better. 

On Love

Here, I made you breakfast to bring on the train, she says, handing over a bag of food in the dark morning though she should be sleeping. Another friendly face on the tram, as dawn slowly creeps a golden light over the city I once called my home, and the misty rolling landscape outside the train window overwhelms me for hours. 

I came to them in tatters this week, broken by sorrow and bloodshot eyes, without so much as an ounce of social graces in my repertoire, and I found them with nothing but open arms in return. They prepared dinner, made me coffee and poured my wine. They listened for hours to my same circles and held me patiently as I gathered courage for another day. 

If I could sit there, hold her hand, and tell her I would make it all better for her, it was only because they put me back together when I fell apart. If I did anything right this week, it was all their doing. 

If I did anything right this life, it was loving these people, and letting them love me in return. Do not be mistaken:

Love

is what is home.