Brooklyn Heights

You woke in someone else's bed this morning, and you don't want to pretend otherwise anymore. Secrets weave themselves around these city streets but they burn off with the morning sun, drifting like the remains of ghosts out the New York Bay. 

I return to the desk in the attic, try to will myself to work, try to will myself into the panic that feeds the capitalist machinery, that keeps the hamster wheel running. Instead, the return of a long-lost friend: the creative swirls that appear in procrastination, that only appear when you are reluctant to walk the wide and straight. In your spine, the feeling of sitting for hours on a back porch, dreaming into the foliage, the feeling of sitting in a window, firing salvos into a typewriter and coming up with symphonies. 

You woke in someone else's bed this morning, and perhaps that is just as well. 

September is here,
and now we choose which battles we want to fight,

which weapons we want to bring when we do.