Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****,
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.

Our coffeemaker died this morning - it wouldn’t **** all the water out of the reservoir - c'est tragique. We love our coffee and apparently, we brewed the life out of it. It sat, oddly neglected, in its usually busy spot beneath hanging copper pans. Adieu, faithful friend, you gave your life to a good cause. We’re reduced to using a freeze-dried brew.

Lisa grew up in New York highrises, and she was agog in our garden. “It’s like Versailles!” she whispered, when we first arrived and did the tour - flattering but hardly. It’s a six acre, French, Color Garden. An acre is like a football field without the end zones - so maybe you can picture the size of it as it wraps around the front of the house.

The lawn slopes off gently to circular beds and right-angled parterres. Two staircases lead to a fountain that feeds a rectangular reflecting pool full of lily-pads and lazy goldfish. Lisa and Leong spent hours this summer reading in the only cool spot, a shaded, wisteria-covered pergola, but gardens are best in fall and spring - when in bloom. I’m sorry they didn’t get to see the explosive flowerings - maybe we can come back, someday, for Easter vacation.

We’re leaving for New Haven at the end of the week so I’m slow organizing for academic life. I have 21 new notebooks (three per class or lab) and 60 various, carefully coutured, colored markers and gel-pens. I tried taking notes on my iPad last year but I found I remembered things better when I took colorful notes by hand, highlighting ideas, and pinning them down in my notebooks, like butterflies.

We hung out with a lot of rising college freshman girls this summer and across the board, it’s been fun. Their questions were super random, but super aware - their interests make our bumbling, freshie experiences seem buzzy. I remember being so ground-down the carceral, COVID lockdown of my 10th and 11th-grade years that college freedoms seemed like space travel. I’m excited for these girls.

Peter and I are squeezing in a morning Facetime call. He looked a little tousled and undone, sporting a black, almost blue, bedhead mess of morning hair. With his sleepy, brown eyes and five o’clock shadow, he looked like he just fell out of bed after hours of.. ahem. My usual, unfocused feelings seemed to find a compelling point.

I smiled and sipped my coffee, “What?” he said, self-consciously, upon catching my expression.

“I just can’t wait to see you in person.” I demurred, choosing to focus on this morning’s awful, instant coffee. I tend to chatter when I’m excited by something, but maybe I’m learning the power of silence.

You remind me
of a wet New York,
a summer of oily
lights on the roads,
of concerts in the park
and the white, loving claustrophobia
in the sky,
you remind me
of standing at a window
fourteen floors up
watching cars on FDR
in the darkness,
hoping that one of them
is yours,
you remind me of
sirens
always, you remind me
of
a confidante
in an alleyway
stale with garbage
always,
you remind me
of subways
and dark knowledge the length and width
of a city
always, you remind me
of crossing a bridge
over grey water
and pewter boats.

It is hard for me to let go
of the city
even as it dampens
in the slate rain;
and the stretched clouds
are pulled down
over the highrises of love.

Rising rents
Doesn’t seem to care
Who they affect
The City could care less
The mayor giving
Tax breaks
Playing high stakes
With peoples lives
The landlord
Controlling the soundboard
With rent control
Now seen as a nuisance
No one used to want to live here
But now they do
They say there is not enough housing
To fit they appetites
Well don’t be so hungry
Don’t be so greedy
Share a space
Don’t displace
Contemplate actions
Homeless shelters
Next to highrises
Single occupant
Apartments
Could fill ten beds
Instead of one head
Even Jack gets kicked out
The bar that supplies the ghost
Is a poetic footnote
To the money hungry
Seeing dollars
Instead of history
The nations remaining
Black bookstore
Painted The Color Purple
Now shut down
By monied clowns
Stating their needs for millions
Over millions who need
Books
Culture
Life
Instead of
****** glossed over history
Without a shred of the past
Marcus Books
Where Malcolm, Ali, Davis
Gathered
Now lost
To the highest bidder
People come
People go
But the erosion of history
Is a swift reality
Of the gentrification
Of The City

he slow jogs on the white sand
parody of a boxer
dose little dance steps as if to avoid blows
the sweat from the fierce sun scatters like rain as he doges
side to side
his hands held at his chest
head held at low angle
were that he was a prize fighter
his life is the beach
with its own world that never sleeps
from lovers entwined in sand at three am
to the devoted worshippers following the sun
in her daily trek across the unblemished roof of the world
he touches pavement as dawn touches sky
and spends his day dancing the waves of sand
the tourists stop and stare
the natives frown
at night he sits under the
monotony noise of an antique fan
its fast ticking is soothing
in his aquamarine blue room
a chicken *** pie and the game on transistor radio
aint life grand he thinks to himself
he's one of the lucky ones
he is complete in his little world
the beach and its teeming life is his world
and he's happy there
i see him sunburned to a golden brown
dance jogging and boxing the air
unburdened by the weight of the world
happy in his blissful unawares
under the watchful gaze of miami beach highrises
to live with even a fraction of his inner peace
one would live a better life

It was a tuesday night in January
A flight delayed two days late
Stranding me in California sun

I ask Ari
To take me to hear poetry
Without hesitation she takes me
To small crowded theatre on Fairfax
We sit cross legged on stage when she encourages me
To share words I had never before spoken aloud
Puts my hand in the air
My name on the list
Volunteers my voice to a hundred unfamiliar faces
So I stand
Bow legged facing microphone
Open mouth
And for the first time
Hear myself speak

Vulnerability has never been a strength of mine
But in those 3 minutes I was given
I let out the sawdust buried beneath my tongue
In those 180 seconds
I learned how to breathe open
Learned how to listen
That tuesday night in January
A flight delayed two days late
Left me stranded in California sun
And fate
Grabbed me by the wrists
And led me into poetry's arms
I never knew
That night
Would become start to new beginning
Would become catalyst
To finding voice in this echoed hallway of a body
That night
Handed me future
Gave me
What I hadn't even known existed
But had always been searching for

I was introduced to opportunity that three girls and one boy later
Would become family
I never expected
To find home in a place other than comfort zone
But leaving was exactly what I needed to reach it
Found parts of myself
In the words of four strangers
Found purpose
In the rhythm of our pens against paper
Found steady
In voice speaking vebrado
I did not plan
To navigate four hearts at once
But learned how to connect our valves
Just enough for it to work
Learned from them most
When raw and ******
Shaking at the times we couldn't bare our own thoughts
Our own feelings
Our own memories
I learned
That each weakness of theirs
Is outnumbered by asset
By strength

Cheyenne
Has a voice like a welcome mat
But closes herself off to most
For fear of goodbye
For fear of repeat abandonment
I want to tell her
That she has a smile like summer
And dimples one could live in
That I don't understand
How anyone could ever leave someone
Who is so much like sun
Is beauty and warmth
In a mixture that can only be swallowed
By those worthy enough to hold her
Sophia
Is crystal eyes and steel bullet
Loves nicotine
Almost as much as she does coffee
Knows how to stand stripped and bleeding
Without worrying about covering up
She
Has a voice like honey bourbon
The kind you want to pour down your throat
Until inhibition disappears completely
Julia
Fell into these words the same way as I did
Composes hers with softness wrapped in strong
She may not believe it
But she is more metal than any other element
Knows anxiety as well as I do
Knows loving is never going to be easy
But doesn't know
That she is so easy to love
Laughs at herself between embarrassing stories
Doesn't realize how much courage that takes
I can see
When her heart attempts to leap out her chest
Doesn't know
That I wait with open hands
Ready to catch it
Erique
Is old soul living beneath 15 years
Knows smiles and laughter
As the most important entity
Doesn't get upset
At my mention of his youth
Loves human almost as much as they love him
Looks to strangers
With outstretched arms
And ready heart

I came into this group unexpectedly
Expecting poetry
And leave
With more than just an understanding of language
I leave
With passion I had never known possible to find
Leave
With stories strung together by veins
With a family
That is more of one
Than I have ever known
More of one
Than my own has ever been
I leave this team
With gratitude
For three months spent working the hardest I ever have
Gratitude
For it being the driving force in my decision to move
To leave my past behind in another city
Leave my demons to the cold and highrises
I found purpose
In a time where I questioned its existence

To the army of fighting poets
You are the most peaceful war fought
Toughest calm ever written
Your battles have not been easy
But you have grown strong
The only casualties being the perceptions you killed
I do not know
If I will ever find this vigor
In another lifetime
But I do know
That I will never find it again
In this one.

I've got my love
on the tip of my finger
& I'm holding a drop
just above your
halo,

waiting on it
to soak through to
your clothing.

There's purity
in the streetlights,

innocence in the dull
sheen of the water
still wet on the streets,

and love in your
breaths.

Your chest beats
slowly in the thickening
fog,

slowly and heavily,

you shouldn't have smoked
that cigarette,

you desolation angel.

And we pass the
gas stations and the
cornerstores and the
neon OPEN signs
flash and blink at us,

telling us something
gravely important,

inviting us
into their jeweled
corridors,

their zoo.

There is a light
in your eyes that
never goes out,

looking up at me
in the meager light
of the urban decay
(lights are still on in the
highrises and the section 8
houses & they burn &
we wonder)
trying to find
an answer trickling
from my lips,

like saltwater--
but I can't say
anything.

I've been too stricken.

Stricken by the sudden
sound of pealing bells
in the distance,

stricken by the lightning
quick flash of silver
from when our hands
lazily touch,

like a hard tap on the
spine & a hard tug
on the tail.

My insides roll,

my throat is dry,

can't stop fidgeting,

what price cigarettes?

I feel faded like my
old blue jeans,

& speckled in baby
blue paint,

walking sideways
down a dank alley
where a bicycle sits
propped against
old mossbricks.

The smell of the rain
clings heavy on
our clothes, the taste
of the rain seeps
between my cracked
lips.

& you clutch my
hand in yours (I
can feel the heat, I
can smell your
butterflies & taste
the sewage from
rusted vents) and kiss
me ******* the mouth.

Left hand meets your
waist,

right hand holds yours,

just below eye level
& I can feel you smile
as my kisses deepen you
& open you,

I can feel your teeth
brush my lips soft
like a paintbrush,

I can feel your nails
like chalk
on the smooth
back of my neck,

& then we step out
into the nightlife,
smelling like cigar smoke
and a drunken day.

Today,
They create their own truths
Where peace is possible
Through weapons and wars
And sacrifices of the young...
You take pride in it.

They promise a better life
Is in cities and highrises
The price of which is future
And half your lives...
You join the line in silence.

They pick on the weak
With no paper proof
To show that they belong
And must to be heard too...
You fail to hear them.

They make you believe
You belong to a country
That is in dire need
So you ought to pay the fees...
You rush to fill those pockets.

Tomorrow,
You will be the Other
No name, nowhere to hide
They will put you as the price
So that the rest may live by
They will tighten your noose...

And the world will watch.

Is that why we feel the rains
stronger
When we're upset
Do the trees have conversations with the wind about the nature of life
We're always pointing fingers
Blaming eachother
For our problems
Instead of looking inside
All the buildings and highrises
The wealth the money and technology
Blinding us
Stealing our lenses
Replacing our views with creeds
And wants
I don't try to fit into anyone's box
Anymore
If I don't fits I don't sits
And quite honestly
I'm ok with that

****** wine-light crawls
the window ledge in Chelsea.
From our hotel room we can see
a blond wig fall to the floor
in an orange room across West 28th.
Out on the street, brown beer stains
spread across the peculiar night cloth.

People who can forget can let go;
the rest of us will remember
the way the moon rolled over
the highrises in Little Italy
by Gelso and Grand,
& got stuck in her eye;
I died more than a little.

God has drawn another Line.
It is the end at the beginning—
Of course, it was not commissioned to be one.
It did not start as one,
But has always been whole.
It was not drawn by a single hand;
It was drawn by many.

The Line, conceived to be darker than shadow,
Had subconsciously been crossed and over-wrought.
So we simply let it be;
Simply kept it separate— separate.

Guidance from God:
"Go now, go now, and connect the lines.
Go now, go now, and make contact with Ditko,
He who once dwelt within the highrises."

Citizens everyone of us
Future of business in the class
Passionless, as I pass into the middle class
Fall in line with all the rest

Boss said its time too get paid
Ghost say its best to learn a trade
Make a nest and live as a slave
Only alternative is an early grave

Citizens everyone of us
Irons and gears in our rust
Leaders that make the devil blush
Under foot the meek feel the crush

Decay on the highrises death before our irises
Ashes make me say less make me feel blessed
Blindsided by the crash burning up to fix it
Strings of violence chasing after finances

Small towns raised from dirt left to the curb
Suburbs running from filth is what I deserve
Moneys the only master left to serve
Reach out and grab it if you got the nerve