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it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away

there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.

is this a literal housewarming

i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell ****, and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.

i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.

i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.

i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.

i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ******. i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.

ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.

a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.
Zach Gomes Oct 2010
From the backbroken fliers over oceans
From between the spiny frills along palm fronds
From Mr. Happy, the chain smoking chaperone of good times
From Mr. Happy’s half-burnt ****, coiled in the ashtray
From the disciples of Theravada and the skinny Buddha’s pupilless eyes scanning jocose scansions of jungle
From the tanned holy heads of students lounging in graveled football fields
From my bowl of rice at breakfast in the shade while considering western cities, you are not here
‘You are not here,’ I’ve written in my letters
‘You are not here,’ I’ve typed into e-mails immense
You are not here, my coke head pals locked in the veins of seedy nightmares
You are not here, my penniless friends who mix music in ascetic dark rooms out in Bushwick
You are not here in no eastern Central Park running naked in the night from horseback cops after hours of merciless balling in the bushes
You are not here you fair-skinned beauties in crowded alpine funiculars bearing your aquiline noses holding your hats over the mountains
You are not here my lonely mother waiting by the phone for a call at midnight
You are not here, you are not in my poems, you are not in the distorted notes harpsichorded across my crass imagination
You are not here, you will not be here, will you read my letters home?
Geno Cattouse May 2014
making the left turn unto  Wilks ave. My steering wheel spins in my palm and
There...... on the park bench sits a red shirt and two more.

So I ease off the accelerator and squash the volume Bushwick Bill and Ghetto Boys drop low in the back seat..... Creepin.

Shirt #1 passed the dank to shirt #3 these simple ******* dont see me ......  stll creepin....shiney steel.
Locked and chambered

Shirt # 2 gets a glimpse as he takes a ****..... but now its bang bang ..... more red and chordite smoke.

R.I.P.
I have no love for the life but have been a witness.
Shelby Hemstock Jul 2013
New York City,
Said the same by masses
Yet reflected upon
Uniquely by individuals
To some it's just a place to visit
And they would never live there
To others,
New York is a haven
A shoppers delight
An amusement park
The city so nice they named it twice
Those who are lucky enough
To have been to New York
You always have at least
One crazy story
The definition of crazy being,
"Possessed by enthusiasm of excitement"
Meaning,
"This one time I was in Bushwick
And I gave a guy directions,
Then he invited me to a cannabis cup.
It was crazy."
Or there's this other definition
Of crazy meaning,
"Fooling or impractical. Senseless"
Crazy New York stories often
Associated with the second definition
Usually involve a homeless person
And urination
Whose ***** it is,
Well that's another story
I can sum up my New York
Story in a minute
If you live here
That's all strangers ask you anyways,
"Where you from friend?"
So I've rehearsed my story a bit
I've gotten pretty good
At expeditiously answering
The questions that follow,
"So what made you
Move to New York?"
"So do you go
To school for it?"
"Where do you work?"
And,
"Do you have
A cigarette?"
My answers,
"I followed a group of friends
To document their experience
As rising musicians
Eventually “Train Robbers”
Was formed and I
Shot an abundance of videos of those
Said musicians busking.
They would preform inside of
60 miles per hour subway cars,
Finish a song or two
Collect the loot
Then bail
Hence, “Train Robbers”.”
I’m mostly self-taught
In the fields of film making
Writing,
Photography,
As well as guitar,
The guitar you can tell
After months of watching
Then later re-watching
In the editing room
These musicians,
Counting up all that easy money
Stacking all the ones
Then forcefully folding
The *** of bills
Into their pockets,
I too then started to play guitar
On the subway.
And no, I don’t have
A cigarette.”
mike Apr 2022
snowflakes dotted the rooftop
with a concrete backdrop
in summer weather

i made my corner,
overlooking bubbles of joy
drunken memories being recorded
a live concert of experience

each visitor gave their introduction
told me what year they were from
without telling me outright

born 1998, from the year 2013
born 1995, from 2008

their core memories on display
when their eyes light up
to illuminate their year
when i ask about their favorite thing

everyone is a collection of moments frozen in time
opening it's eyes for the first time
and looking into the future happening in front of them
charmaine Jan 2017
I am from Carmella and Peter, who are from Marie, who gave birth to seven aunts and uncles on each side and unknown fathers who were there but weren't.
From the Native tribes of Cherokees all the way to the Jamaican seas.
From the grandmother, I never met but love so much, from the grandfathers who died before they knew I even existed.
I am from the North-Atlantic Slave Trade, 400 years and counting, spread from the southern breezes of Georgia to the Caribbean waters of Jamaica.
From the robbery of my ancestors, the lynches of my great-grandfathers, the discrimination of my grandmothers and the fight of my parents and the reluctance of me.
I am from hugs and kisses of my mother to discipline and handshakes from my father.
From strict lessons about boys and the harshest of truths about life as a Black woman.
From the many years of Thanksgiving and Christmas spent with families who were always so happy to see me, from the hams and turkeys to the soul food made by my mother's hands.
I am from days with no tv, no heat, no idea about how to get by, but my mother made me feel the richest of rich.
I am from self-taught Christians, who never went to church but serve God as though he lives through them.
From the smartest of women and men who told me to never say "Can't", even as I rolled my eyes and told them I've already done it.
I am from a family of women, strongest I've ever known and compassionate as well.
From women who have beaten down by years of male egos and the darkness of their skin.
I am from the urban city of New York, where in two seconds and a metrocard, I am in the Gold Coast.
From the gentrification of Gates Ave, and the impending doom of it happening to me.
From the projects and two family homes of Bushwick, now turned into high-rises for the wealthiest of New York City.
From the architecture of a Trump tower right across the street from a low-income housing development.
I am from the hard times of depression and anxiety that were overlooked with alcohol and arguments, from the outbursts and crying myself to sleep, to not knowing the real thoughts of my father and what he thinks of me.
From the overachiever of my mother wanting to make a better life for me and me succeeding in her dreams.
From the many pages of poetry, I write to calm the mind and heal the pain.
I am from the generation who hopes to make our ancestors proud as they have made us.
assignment from my memoir class. thought I'd share it here.
Matt Proctor Feb 2014
An apartments the size of a grave
and just as expensive. It costs a life
to be buried on Avenue A.
Two girls reunite in their street corner booth

where many nights have been spent confiding
about boys, the plausible deniability
of taxicab *******, flights home over
one bridge or another.

She's just returned from a semester in Africa.
The unencumbered smiles beaming from
the children's faces linger like a sunburn.
Her friend is agonizing over a guy who believes in her

wholeheartedly. She commands him like a drone
with the send button on her phone.
She asks her friend if she saw the article in the Times
about women in Afghanistan who die for their poetry?

Is it still warring over there? the friend says.
Her laugh is ambushed by a new feeling, something like
regret at having allowed herself to be wrapped
in the personality of her dresses for so many years.

First thing when she got home she pulled her grandmother’s old fur
out of storage and wrangled the antlers onto the cat
but the smile didn't come. Tonight, we're going dancing.
The boys are meeting us there. Does that work?

She nods. A button is pushed and a car carries them
to a warehouse in Bushwick which twenty years ago
was a wonderful crack house. Oh, it's so good to see you again!
She laughs and pretends she is living the night like it's her last

the whole time thinking about a young girl
across the world speaking her poem
into a telephone so someone else can hear it
before the line goes dead.
New York City, NYC, Guilt
Rebecca Gismondi Nov 2016
my favourite

part about being drunk is when
I hold the end of a cigarette by the flame
it doesn’t burn my fingers

I am invincible

I love when I’m drunk
and you weave your fingertips through
the holes in my tights

close but not enough

if I’m drunk enough I’ll let you
walk me back to your apartment in Bushwick

the hallways looking
like The Overlook Hotel

while you push me onto your bed and tell me
all you want to do is lay naked next to me

next thing you know I am your outlet

I am a thousand resonating nos

mine is every body you’ve ever wanted
covered with glass

and you wind my hair around your palm
and I am drunk
off the New York skyline
off the back of an Audi
off a taco truck in a bar

that I submit
and I beg you
to fill all my holes
Tony Aug 2018
My feet ******* hurt
I've been walking all ******* day
Queens to Manhattan
Walking every ******* block of Union Square

Manhattan to Brooklyn

Brooklyn to Chinatown
Walking through a project
Project being a bunch of old Chinese women

Walking so much I can't walk anymore
My legs start to shake
My feet like they’re on hot coals

I sit

I listen to music
I stare at some *****
Some sirens scream by
Tourists looking like me look for the next sight
Business people walking to catch a train home

I sit

A friend calls
We chat about ***
Relationships
Etc.

45 minutes go by fast when your feet hurt this much
I stand and the weight of the universe shifts
Or was it just me

I keep walking
Far downtown to Bushwick
No seats on either train
Walk from the stop
Shop is closed
Stomach grumbles
Call for pickup
Walk across the neighborhood for my sandwich
Finally sit again at a pizza place with no A/C
Eat a sandwich the size of my arm and drink a bottle water
5 minutes

Dread what's next
******* some more before moving to the train
Bushwick to Crown Heights
No seats on the first train
Standing for the 2nd train
Finally I sit on the orange seats

Two stops later back on my feet
Walking 15 minutes to a basement
No matter how much my feet hurt I still walk fast when I'm scared of being mugged
First set no seats
People get up to smoke and **** and I claim my throne for the rest of the night
But my feet still burn

The night ends and I make the same walk to the train
Standing
Waiting
Couple stops until I get a seat

My feet still ******* hurt
See the magnets, magnetizing eyes, spills, off the paralyze,
Analyze,  the rap game, **** shame, no hope for gains,
Masters closed, studio using folks, for a front page article,
I took Anita's route, learned it good, no more black Hollywood,
Sirens, playing gold, strings to my ears, til it starts to ring,
Bling, like a light, looking for a place, to touch, deepest clutch,
Grind everyday, **** what possibilites say, I pray,
Under, any weather go getter, hands like Floyd Mayweather,
Stormy nights, candle lights white paper, with tha ball point writes,
Dope am I, heads focused towards the sky, see the drawn signs,
Angels holding horns, demons flying in on a swarm, snake charms,
How many evils, of good, does it take for it, to be understood,
Mister conundrum, sound the drums, followed by the guns, hums,
Shallow greets, mystery meets, it's like MF DOOM on a sweep,
Chop up ya vocals, til ya a vegetable, verses, I spit it so legible,
This ain't ya average edible, and when I cut y'all, I make sure,
Ya billed through, the coroners taxed revenue, ya feeling me,
Filling you, so true, words stick like a plate a fish do, animal,
Savage, ride by, eyes red, got the instincts buggin, off the cabbage,
Carnage layer, not a fair player, peace to the gods, that slayed ya,
Ya mayor, naw **** that, I rather sit like Lincoln, with the top hat,
Top that, with boss macks, breaking rules, with unimaginable stats,
Yo it's like that, eyes behold, the steels of ya flesh, on a role,
A billion tears, formed since the early years, hidden deep fears,
Poured out, the atmosphere, you folks ain't hearing, me clear,
Took Bushwick's bullets, reloaded it and pulled it, at an enemy,
See now, they no longer hunting me, sitting in the cemetery,
Buried with pain, looking at the deep remains,of the spiritually drained,
Too high to die, spotted Elijah on the clouds, of the wings by,
Fiery wardrobe standing on top of the globe, with five loaves,
Quick to break bread, but understand theres betrayal, of trust ahead,
Gotta watch my back, no slack, it ain't bout the street crack,
Cuz these cats, in the streets cracks, no real **** for that,
Imagine if Emit til wasnt black, how many would, replace there maps,
Reverse roles, are scared to die, or just another, fake vessels,
Riding off of the risky waves, and I know that I'm brave, til I'm in the grave,
Soul shadows, looking over me, asking god to help me,
But he dont hear me, lay mercy upon  thee, souls of the city,
It used to look pretty, like diamonds on my rollie, never phony,
Caught a glimpse, of Pretty Tony smackin, ******* to crony,
Lonely hearts, like Jackie Wilson, shaving the teardrops,
This is what I gotta do, stay true, under god, individual,
we spot troops, before they spot out troops, infidel catch a scoop,
Picture this, Bond ****, 007 hits marksmanship, expert,
Make heads squirts, and oh it hurts, take page, from my mind,
And you'll find, your infinite ways, behind, this mastermind
thelonious Oct 2019
For many years now, I have watched the rain/I have scraped the ice off my skin/I have sat in a luxury sedan and dreamed about things, things that don’t exist now, things that never did exist, I have memories of dreams, I have memories of Brooklyn/it is two seventeen am, I have taken three hits of acid, i am sitting at pier 1, I’m drinking triple x vitamin water, it is snowing, the east river is on fire, a van arrives, fourteen Hasidic children get out/it’s  three thirty two am, I’m in Times Square, It’s forty two degrees, I’m wearing a t shirt, I’m running from the cops, the cops were never chasing me, I see Carson Daily/it’s five forty seven am, I’m on a rooftop in Bushwick, midtown has vanished behind pink fog and smeared neon, a woman is orgasming loudly, a **** is crowing, I stand swaying, on the precipice between infinite possibilities and nothingness/it’s three twenty nine am, I’m lying in the middle of Atlantic Avenue, I’m making snow angels/twenty three minutes from now a woman I met on ok Cupid dot com will be playing me tom waits records, I will think about another girl that I love, but who does not love me/forty eight minutes from now I will emphatically ******* onto a large pair of *******/I have walked many blocks and over drafted many debit cards/I have been watching the rain for a long time now
Yo I'm classic like Earl Mannigoat, see the lyrics that float, scent to an impulse,
Stay close to the toast, so I miss the host of a space ghost, who knows the most,
In the game, got a lot of hustlers under his name, never speak gods in vain,
I is is, and is is I, shinned up my eye, to see the light, a little more clearer,
Took the shells from Bushwick, and reloaded it, now my enemies feel it,
Pain for pain exchange, I draw thrills deeper than mountains or terrains,
At highest peak mayne, i spread holy wars, took the blood from Peter,
Earlobe pinned it to the globe, now I'm tucked under, hidden my own abode,
Silent prayers, hold up for my ancestors, got spirits, lounging as protectors,
Respect tha, afterlife fusing life's treasures, no limits put on the measures,
Gods left messages under my dresser, scales of a weight measurer,
Telling me do I wanna live, or die, where do I want my soul, eternally to lie,
With the demons or the angels, but I see them in the same tangle, strangle,
Grips over dark and light, like blacks and whites, post poison social media hype,
Iight see the chaos in the delight, confusion loves death with infusion, cruising,
On your airwaves, see they ain't peeping the last days, of Noah beards in grey's,
I say, everybody hop in the boat, we could all be one, if we ride to the same note,
I write a tune, that couldn't be put in auto tune, on ya auto you'll been in tune,
Born on the black moon, that's when I my eyes flashed, and darkness consumed,
God and goddess's, witnessing this, sight of a new Jesus Christ, spike the cross,
Blood dripping of the tree moss, slaves of the past leaked, the spirit froth,
Cocoon with knowledge, watch the butterfly to moth, inject thoughts collect,
Retrospect, while blaze to the cigars that's lit, only real fakes see counterfeits,
Yo , I let the spirits come gather round me, let the words invoke thee,
None could hold me, show me, how to flex a beat properly, got ya looking at me,
I'm nasty nas, times three or maybe Jay-z, infused with Pac and Biggie,
Or better yet Scarface Bushwick to Willie Dee, I dont care what they say about me,
Down right cocky, cant block me, slamming suckas like Anfernee, Hardaway
Girls love it the hard way, what I say, one love to the tre, still ******* girls entree,
Oh wait, lord forgive me for that say, everynight a killers on his Qs and pray,
The next soul left astray, dont even know they last day, first 48 on the air waves,
These days, to many critics crave, I bring the heat like Dave, Chappelle
Cast a spell, born in hell from the flesh cracked out of my shell,
Mama tried to learn me well, but my heart's too cold, been turned stale,
Too many fakes, too many jakes, from snakes, funerals and wakes,
Celebration of life, with no cakes, only realist figure is deaths picture,
Snap shot ya life, is on a poster memory of ya missing, in a cellular holster,
Folks really only love you, when you gone, but when they here, they love was gone
Seem rights, loves to find wrong, sound the gong, it's just another sad song,

— The End —