two threads

some mornings i wake up, or walk home, and i can't believe who i am.

then there's the part that's as good at running as ever.

blindsided

if you had somehow known five years ago, and told me: in april, 2009, you live in new york, and you wake up in the sun with the breeze in manhattan, and you smile at someone who kisses and dresses and goes, and you spend the day on cobblestone streets with a backpack and a friend and an idea, and in the evening you sweat and drink on the first day of spring, alone but happy, making thick soup and snacking on crackers -- would you have been able to convince me i'd be so happy?

i would have laughed, and my insides would have folded in on themselves, because imagining how this feels is suspiciously close to how this actually feels, and your body prepares you for feeling this way long before you're ready, or aware.

the way you put the pillow behind me, half asleep. all the apartments that ring tompkins square park, colonial red and blue and green, all right angles, holding their breath. the luck i feel, the peace. for a few electric minutes, i'm full.

starry night

the city reveals itself in time, spinning shades of grey that stack like plates, overlapping, basic hues hinting at blues and greens and pinks to coincide with spring.

strung along its 20 odd miles, so many ways to be and ways to live. what i've experienced so far: the dust from the comet, the debris from the launch of the rocket. on the next revolution of the perpetual satellite, the chance to grasp on, pick up some speed, feel the freedom of trajectory, the faith in flight, the sting and grit of reentry. sending signals out, little mental lines and lassoes, blocking the slush that comes inward because i must connect myself to other things, make progress.

arrangement

i woke up, searching for a missing hour and, impossibly, birds were chirping in the middle of new york. i thought about how unnecessary a curtain or blinds are since the sun only shines down just so a few times a month. you sat up, found your brown shirt on the dresser, and i spent the rest of the day pressed against pillows.

if i knew how to do things, i would explain how you make me so sad, and so happy.

a little wind

the big disappointment in the big apple has been friendship; sneaky, slippery, flakey friendship.
people are over it in la, but we were over it together.
here, everyone is over you for weeks. and time together is spent in wisps, like vapor on the avenues. it's gone, and you go, and exist in your few square feet.

but the best part has been getting to know the okay parts of myself. and those parts fill the small space required; proud, taut like a helium foil balloon.

so, i puff myself up, little sips, and i hold it longer and deeper.

green grass

even though it feels like spring on the tall, skinny island, and i walk past american castles every day, and i like someone (in that way), and i have a kitchen, and a job, and a body that works, and so many good songs,

this night would be nicer in los angeles.

page turner

i don't have anything to put here anymore.

possibly, i blame:

-the crook of a stranger's arm on the S train, which is very often where i find my head during rush hour
-the crowded L train to brooklyn
-the crowded N (or R, or W) train home
-the crowded trader joe's on 14th street
-my crowded apartment (that's really not that crowded)
-the robotic bulk of the new york times building that blocks the sun through my front window
-our superintendent, diego
-the underage drunk girls at the bar on the corner
-a studio on west 100th street

nothing that happens from now on belongs to me.

everything that's here, i thank los angeles. but since i'm not there anymore, it makes sense to try something new.

i still have energy. i still have things i'd like to say. i'm just saying them in other places.

stay tuned.