2012.

You rise, in my opinion, he said, as I rolled a cigarette. And I don't even smoke. Still the corner came, and I left him. I don't want to rise. I don't want to look good in your eyes. I returned to an empty apartment and filled it with ghosts. My new year's letter told me stories I did not want to hear.

It dreamed of travel, of adventure, of love. It dreamed of excitement and owning what was yours. How every year is a clean slate once, and how quickly it becomes the same.

Tomorrow is no different, when the numbers have changed. Beware doll, you're bound to fall. Your throat is dry, your eyes. Nothing changes, this night like any other, such is life. Such is life.

New Year, New You. You promise things will be different. Keep your hands to yourself. There's a splinter in mine. Happy New Year. Happy. New. Year.

p.s.

When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose

the Ride

Push and Pull, up and down, it's an incessant roller coaster this life. Do you realize that a year ago today I was in Oz? Every New York day was a snow storm and I thought I'd never get out. Another year ends, a new one beckons, I am as clueless this time as everytime I stand on that threshold: this is the life I chose.

My landlord calls; 6 days before homelessness and he says maybe we can work something out; do you want to stay? A job application lies in wait. Three weeks of America and then I don't know anything, it doesn't faze me. You didn't want to go home tonight; there is no home; it breaks my heart to see you. Another year dawns. This time it will be different. A dear friend cries into the West Coast sun; I wanted to surprise you all by showing up. All the world is a stage; it is easily crossed.

This is the life we chose; don't you see? You with your poverty, your two houses, your three weeks of vacation, your creative genius. We made this bed. Let us lie in it till the sheets are crumpled and the numbers forget to matter.

The new year arrives. We are already here.

to Button

My days and nights twist; I sloth through the mornings and sprint through the nights, no matter. Disease rips at my veins and my patience, I do not care. It is time to pack, the months of relative stability come to an end, I tear at piles of papers and notes and reminders of seasons past. A small voice at the back of my spine whispers pack carefully, you may not return, and I laugh at the silly notion. My roommate said long ago she suspected I'd stay out there, that wanderlust would grasp me and I'd be lost to the moment. A craigslist ad appears in my News Feed, a friend of a friend, corner of Jones and Bleecker, decent price. I giggle again into the night.

I will be back, of course, I have promises and obligations, haven't I? (haven't I?) But all the time, that voice, helping me pack, one bag for summer suits, one for things I can live without in the coming month. things I can live without, period. I resist the urge to throw everything away. Who needs it. I caress Ginsberg on my dresser; he is so heavy, but I would carry him anywhere. What else is there? There's the clothes on your back, the letters of your loves, the machines of the modern world. Everything else you can do without. You are weightless, you are free, I am happy.

I will be back, of course. I have promises and obligations. I have. Just give me this moment, give me this breath of air, give me this smiling soul. I am happy.

Slate Clean

The infection slowly releases its grip on my body. My breaths are strained, slow, like those of an aging man, but my body begins to unfold itself, to awake. I sit in the living room in a yoga pose and let the pieces fall into the puzzle. With each stretching muscle, the picture becomes clearer: what must be done, what life this is to live.

I long for security, I do. I long for exactly the same stability that you carry with you, the savings account and predictability and control that you cannot live without; I am not inhuman. I am overwhelmed by the continuing support from those around me, who pick me up when I get too close to the edge, who feed me in every sense and who do not tire; I am ashamed of my continued need for them and inability to repay what I owe. I am not ignorant.

But I slip into the bath with Henry Miller, and he speaks of Greece and strangers who instantly feel like home, he bubbles with adventure and paints dinners like were they masterpieces of art. He speaks of home as a place one loves but itches to leave. You long to break out and test your powers... to make friends... to look beyond walls and cultivated patches of earth. You want to cease thinking in terms of life insurance, sick benefits, old age pensions, and so on. My toes began to wrinkle in the hot water, but my soul was young anew.

I ache now. But were I steadily confined within the walls of a job, a house, a savings account, would I not ache worse? I should come to my senses, I hear you. But I fear if I let go this dream, this itch, this fire, then I let myself give up, and I die.

I ache now. I am alive.

Completely Unscathed

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, and the lights sparkled like never before. We sat exhausted on a late night couch, our bellies full, our hearts warm, our senses satisfied. A call sprang to life on the screen, six hours back across the ocean and dinner was only starting. We joined them in their meal, told stories of the season, of the future, sang songs and toasted to the wonder. I walked home later, in the stream of holiday revelers returning to their beds, and remembered what I try so hard to forget.

Isn't it time you stopped whining about missing New York, he said weeks ago, before the beers grew too many. Isn't it time you got over it? I wanted to agree with him, I wanted to move on, because that is what people do. But when New York is the only place that has ever made sense, is the only place where none of the heartache, or fear, or sorrow matters, how can I? My every step in this life is shaky, and only those streets steady me. Please be patient. I am trying, as best I can.

If I were not here,
I would be nowhere.
If I were not here,
I would be no one.

And next year,
all our troubles
will be out of sight.

To Stay That Way

When they come to count the words
too much is still left unsaid
We scramble with pennies
I wish I had told you months ago
But the time will never be right
and I don't know how to make it.

I busy myself
with other tricks

It doesn't help.