Monday, September 27, 2010

rain falls in brooklyn.

A gray sky walk with painterly clouds, that Hefner track chugging through my ears, wet leather and splashing off sidewalks. The words written on my palm in arching, curving, smearing ink. Homeward bound, cup in hand, damp hair and warm face.

"So when can I see yous?" on the tip of our tongues. A pounding anticipation. It feels like it has been such a long time since I've been down. I imagine peering out dark windows, the outside a moonlit blur of motion, and everything is deep and silly and amazing.

I gently clutch at your arm just above the crook of your elbow as we walk. Years ago, we pulled in to hold one another, to hold each other up and met with a soft shroud of long hair and warm breath, giving the corner of our lips a sloppy kiss after a swift, but final turn of the face. Confusing disappointment with intimacy.

Smoking too much at night and drifting upwards, watching dumb shit and closing the distance with the absurdity of it all.

Would you think I was pretty no matter what?

The blue tint of the bedroom from the setting sun now fallen behind the horizon. Rumpled sheets. Scratch marks down your back. A signature to verify. Can I ask you to hurt me? Perhaps for all the impetuous, inconvenient pain I cause and apologies that seem to add up to nothing. At times, my head backs me into a corner and in pushing back, I push you away. And I'm so very sorry I cannot sort it out for you. For me. For now.

I expect you to be the strong one. Maybe that's not fair.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

sunday morning.

These days come in waves...sometimes receding so much as to seem non-existent and others form a peak so tall there is no way to look beyond. An evaluation of what was lost over time, and now that things are capable of being ten or more years back in history, perhaps time to admit to what was gained instead. I wonder if adulthood lingers a bit in what could have been, what could be. All the seemingly inconsequential choices leading here to this point. At times, they required no thought. This is love. This is right. This is life.

In many ways, I think these realizations or reflections hinder my ability to be certain. A path to be forged, but at what cost? My own hesitance and apprehension getting in the way of viewing these choices as a positive move forward. Always dragging my own feet towards the future as it all moves so quickly. Perceiving myself as old and yet still young. I'm sure the whole process will smooth itself out over time as these things are wont to do. But, at this moment, I feel timid in finalizing.

Friday, after work, I walked three miles to clear my head. Times Square down 6th down Broadway to Canal to catch the J across the river. Headphones in, listening intently to a proposed playlist for you. I like songs that make you feel like a badass. Ha! When you own a car, listening to that kind of stuff lends itself to sing alongs and maybe a little shoulder action or thumbs tapping on the steering wheel. Yet as a pedestrian, you inadvertently switch to strut mode with a soundtrack to a city sidewalk runway. Which ultimately is all the more embarrassing, because it's inescapably more visible. Eyes locked, feet places in time, maybe a slight swish of the hips. I catch myself and smile in these moments. Running to badass tracks works, bc you're already moving. Essentially sashaying to badass tracks...spectacle.

Sundays mornings are for Bob Dylan and days when it should be snowing.

I miss the time when sex wasn't a discussion.

The quiet pierced by single notes and softly murmured truths to a loosely clung heartbeat. Wearing stretched out cotton and spending too much time in bed. I liked it better when Conor Oberst wrote sad songs. Sliding guitars reminiscent of nights in dimly lit bars, pitcher half drained and pint growing lukewarm, dancing down the space between tables. The days when we pushed the hair out of our faces to reveal eyes with mischief untainted. Voices crack when locking eyes says just as much (if not more.) Pearl buttons on your inherited brown plaid shirt snapped up. You were smaller then. And now we are so much bigger.

Friday, September 24, 2010

a city that can always be stared at.

The haze of the day fools my eyes into thinking everything is out of focus. Woody Allen's out of focus.

Monday, September 20, 2010

today was tight.

Some days are better than others (as if this is a profound statement.)

"God Only Knows" softly carrying over the den of an afternoon cafe. A half-eaten square of pistachio cake neglected upon the table top in front of me. Men with their jeans slightly sagging to reveal non-existent asses. I'm waiting as I watch the people pass by.

I find that I would search for days to find the one thing that creates an obsessive urge within me. Coming of age with Totally Wreck and then moving to the city brought me to the realization that very few things cause me to stir. I see it in their eyes, buried deep, but very much alive. I want some.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

your baby is fat and ugly.

I spent tonight at a work function. A work function as a freelancer. It's quite a state to be in. In one sense, I feel like I should belong to this group and in another, I recognize myself as free and independent. Moments arise in which I realize that I am living this life. This is my life. And somehow when it seems the reality doesn't align with my perception of being, I feel at odds. Is it possible to feel as if I am dreaming in a waking life? I long for authenticity. For proof of today. I want poetry in living. Not growing old as the mind dulls. God, who am I anymore?

Buried under the covers, weaving drunk on the sidewalk under city street lamps, throw your head back and close your eyes as you...

Blinking eyes in slower paces. Flipping the pages of contemporary bullshit. Wear your sunglasses, but when you cover your eyes make sure your heart still beats visibly and out loud. Quit hiding. Just quit hiding.

I want to know what you have to say. What it means to you to live here, to live now. Because we are different people saying different things walking different streets in different places. Say it out loud and it becomes so true, so tangible, so you. Time passes from August to September to the very soon October and here we are.

Crashing poetry readings up the filth-covered stairs in Bushwick, shoving past a plethora of people in the ear-splitting bar, and future bffs clutching at each others' waists in the washed out moonlit streets. Here we are.

We wear tangled chains and rocks that catch the light and reflect like disco balls. We take it down to the floor to that dirty music in an internal world untainted. We fall back in the garden as the night sky grows old. Here we are.

Badly mixed drinks, honesty on the table, lyrical genius in the way you walk. It doesn't matter how thrown you are, how sober in your step, or how dilated your eyes may be as long as you move forward.

Best friends in Berlin leave you looking for more. And the closest to family in Austin pushing you to pursue. What is here, but love, life and liberty? Ol' NYC, you fucking dog. A bitch, but you made me.

"Drunk girls can be just as insane."

Sunday, September 12, 2010

it is after dark and you are sleeping.

Single words do not often exist for some of the complex emotions that stem out of growing older. The many words for love we do not have. Agape. Eros. Philia. The thoughts we think rarely cease.

Irish tea with milk and agave syrup in the morning. Yellow crimson watermelon and stove-popped pop corn at night. You sleep beside me, and I see you in your silence.