every year
is a month
that happened twelve times
every month is a week
that happened four times
every week
is a day
that happened seven times
every day is an hour
that happened twenty four
every hour
is a minute
that happened sixty times
every minute
is a second that happened.

so this second
this tiny little fleeting thing—
my dear, that’s your minute, hour, day, week, month year—
just the replay, callback, repeat buttons are a little bit stuck
so everything happens a whole bunch

but in the end its all the same

so fight
with your dear god ****** life
to make them different.
repair yourself. unstick the replay repeat callback buttons
and dont let your time be a series of play backs.
make each one a new route through the park
a new journey

to a new star
a new poem
a new sentence

lose the order of time.
you have the power to make every second different from the next

you can turn each second into an experience
a journey
a song
a rhyme
a hug
a smile
a new friend.

so dont let each year be a year

make it a scrapbook
of the world and you
a constant evolving friendship
with endless things to do.

the lights shine bright through the night


you know when you’re in love. and the other person doesnt love you back.
when you have one of those stupid crushes
that nags at you
like an itch on the tip of your elbow
the part that you cant reach
everyone has that point
that tip on their elbow
and everyone feels that kind of love

well you know the feeling when that goes away
when you just become happy again
like a little cloud lifted and your room is clean again
the grey is gone

and you can finally smile again to yourself
and you think

standing
writing
breathing

you’re just one
and he’s just one
in this place
of so **** many

the lights shine bright through the night
and you’re all here together
and everyone is itching their elbows as best they can
but some people, for a little while, get an itch in that unlucky place

but it will pass
this too shall pass

the lights shine bright through the night
and the beat continues
people hop in cabs
people march across the bridge
people ride their bikes through blackness
delivering chicken and pizza and chinese food
and people jump on the subway
they listen to the prophets
on their way out
they go out
and party
and dance
eyes lock
numbers stain napkins
people end up in new beds
like puzzle pieces in this city
its like everyone’s doing a dance during the day
but come night fall you have to choose a place
kinda like musical chairs
but musical beds
for grown ups
and its an evil
a beautiful
a tragic
a wonderful
an endless
game.

I walked by the playground. The little kids- reminiscent of little versions of me- were bundled in puffy parkas, scarves, gloves and hats tied under their chins so tight that their chubby cheeks poured over the bow. They can barely lift their arms. They stumble and wobble, rolling around the playground, up the pyramids and down the slides. The crisp air of a warm winter engulfs them as they think about their new friends, and how they enjoy playing tag on the playground. The kids, they’ve been there forever it seems.  

Couples walk dogs. Women with curly black hair frizzing out of wrapped striped scarves, with glasses, with wrinkles. Men walking slowly behind, undistinguished, unremarkable, but peaceful nonetheless. The grey of the city pours into the park, a timeless grey filling corners that are easy to mistake as empty. Filling the cracks in the old cement all along the paths between playgrounds. Buildings stand right on the edge reminding you of where you are. Marking the minutes left you have in a playland. Soon you’ll hit the bustling streets where coats, scarves, mittens, socks mix with people walking so fast down the sidewalk in a cocktail of cold, pain, business and ambition. Sometimes cheeks flush as new lovers hold hands. Children laugh and tickle one another. But more often than not, everyone drinks the cocktail and keeps going- destinations unknown but going nonetheless.

When you’re alone you drink the cocktail, and think that you’re the only one. It makes you tell yourself to keep going, that you’ll go far. You pick some imaginary destination and push yourself towards it with all your might. Just like parents push the little bundles of pink and blue sitting on the swings at the playground.

Someday, maybe you’ll bump into someone- who will help you remember that you aren’t the only one. You aren’t the only one drinking the cocktail. And you’ll feel like maybe you can walk together, bundled now not only in your coats, but in each other. In the warmth of someone else, and the softness of their embrace.

But all too soon, one of you will trip- holding each other – one person holding on too tight, or another tripping over shoes. It’s inevitable.

There’s a bench. A bench at the intersection of three paths, one that is incredibly hard to revisit, but one that doesn’t move. It’s hard to find- at that intersection. It’s under a bridge, behind a museum, covered in shrubbery, and overcome by passersby. Under the bridge there’s a man who plays his flute. It echoes though, offering a trail of crumbs to find this place.

Where to begin
I have many starting lines in mind
This happens when, like an oncoming storm,
A poem has been on its way for too long
The little, cloud of emotion, words, phrases
Creativity and art
Have been bustling in the back of my brain
And it all starts to burs in different directions
Infiltrating my rationality
My time management
My ability to concentrate on you
Or on me
Or on your luggage
My belongings
The future

Yes, this poem has been coming for far too long.
Some of the starting lines that I have considered might take you by surprise
(as many good starting lines do, and even more bad ones)
One was, “I have a beautiful face”
And the poem would go something like this
I’ve been told that I have a beautiful face
And sometimes, when I look in the mirror
I can see snippets of what people call that beautiful face
I can see the eyes that certain boys have said are pretty
I can see the cheeks that are chubby and lovable
I can see the outline of a human being with golden hair
Too often in the shape of a birdsnest behind my head
I can see the outline of me, which is also an outline of you
Where you stop and I start
You are everywhere
Except in me

Noone will make you stronger than you are
Noone will make you something that you aren’t
You can be
You can talk
You can try your best to share

But it seems that
The sharing is and has an element of consequence
It comes at the right time
When things are stable, the world is spinning steadily enough for your wine glasses to sit on the table, maybe perching, but safe, on the wooden edge
It comes at a time when you know what to do each day, and you do it
It comes at a time when you’ve figured out what’s going on
That you think you know what’s going on so you’re able to function
It comes at a time when you have a lot
Not plastic, not time, not food, not wine
You just have a lot.
There’s no word for what it is that you have
Its not love, but it might be the ingredients
You have enough of you- enough projects about you that you’ve worked on
Enough soul and love that you have devoted to yourself and other things
Those are the best
Actually maybe they’re the only
It’s a process of breaking down walls
And then building up bricks

It's a process of letting me be
Letting me giggle
And smile
And bruise, sometimes
It wont be your fault when it happens
But bruises make me stronger
They make me less willing to break down the walls
So I’ll go at a better pace
Thank you- for all of it
Especially the little bruises

I hope that I make you think
In a different way
In a new way

I hope that you can appreciate the
Simultaneously
Happy grateful loving
Pensive questioning and uncertain
Being that is me

I hope that this poem
Or letter
Or essay
Or collection of misfit words

Helps you see
That there’s a lot to me

The most that I can do with it though
Is try
To do good

I can’t say what good will come from sharing with you
But I can say that I think some will

You’re like a fortress: you don’t need, frankly, you make it seem, quite a lot like you don’t even want.

But that’s impossible because even fortresses need food and water, repairs and most importantly people to walk in them, and care for them.

I wonder- no, I hope- that in some way
Our fleeting encounters
Help you in some way
Maybe I can provide a sounding board
A bit of a mirror
Or evens simple companionship

I just hope to help
As you go through you lone path through life
Like we all do every day
That’s all, in good conscience, that I can hope

I will not take from you
I refuse
I absolutely refuse
So I cannot hope for more
At least not now

I don't know why I told you all the things that I did
If I could go back and sensor it all
I probably would
Like why would I tell you about the pink bridge
The pink bridge meant a lot to me
For different reasons
That's a story
And likely a sad one
That you don't know
I didn't know what I was doing
With my sexuality
With that of others
I didn't know what was going on
Or where I was going
But I walked across the pink bridge

Its funny
(first know that whenever I’m writing what will be a harder-to-write-clause I euphemistically write it as, it’s funny)
I feel like I cant tell you the story of my life right now
We’re too in the middle,
Smack dab front row center
And I feel like there’s just enough of it
That it can easily start to spill over the brims of the fruit basket
I’ll miss parts
I’ll miss pieces
I don't want to be needy
Or overly affectionate
I’m done with those things
With being too nice

You like to talk
About a lot of things
And you’re pretty real
The problem is that
My reality is
Different
Its one of colors
Feelings art
Words on a page like this one
This is how I live

And I’m worried,
Because I don't know
If this is what I should be doing to make a living
Since I know that it’s how I live
And feel most alive

I can always write though
In my head walking home from work
On scraps at a coffeeshop
On the kitchen table before dinner

It will never go away
I will always hold onto it

So funny
Again when I was writing this
I thought that maybe I could share it with you.
The answer to that is blatantly no.