The Lonely City
my lips are buttery thick with pastry
warm
- flaking
my tongue is mildewed
it’s raining
dirt grey
melts on skin
silver pools under eye-bag
as i look up to sky
yellow cabs flash bumble bee
swarm
“This is so New York.”
she says.
edge into nearest cafe
books spill from corners
feel the weight of stories pressing on all sides
little man sits on stool, bearded, glasses
black eyes jump across page of book
titled:
“The Lonely City”
i run to subway with hands serpenting through air
slithering slow dance down rail
Rain rain rain
Run run run
descending steps
think cavernous and dank
The smell. Piss. waffles. weed.
All at once. Symphonic
Scented cacophony
taste metal in mouth
Mercurial on Monday
the rumble of an approaching train in New York is a sound i will never forget.
shaking tracks,
feel like they’re made of my ribs
Clattering. Bones.
F train.
elderly couple canoodling
Think of the other F
his arm dangles loosely over her shoulder,
gold watch peeking from veiny wrist
Possession I think.
People as possession.
Connection I think.
Connection as two bodies meeting each other
Half-way
In the middle of things and places and spaces
Blank -
reaching into each other’s
limbs,
Imagine my body turned inside out.
Innards of skin
Organs on display, heart hanging, pulsing,
Redness
Flesh
i beat
i am real
Think:
I have to stop finding home in other people.
I’ll make my bed in your brain
Your belly button my bathtub
The door will eat you alive
Pincers -
open & close
Open &
“Doors closing”
says subway
Timely.
sweet child sings, legs splayed over neon seat
peeking out of window
we’re in a tunnel
he tilts his head,
looking out at something -
curious.
All I see is black
Think into the void:
Kindness and the way the word makes me feel
it might just be my favorite
or maybe favorite is my favorite
“You like language in its extremes”
He says
Picture myself shouting kindness
from roof of moving train
ballooning from mouth
O-shaped, floating
watch it settle into passersby
Inklings
sprinkled and sewn into
Psyche
18th st.
- this is me
Doors open
walk by
Man who makes bench his house
I see him in the same spot every morning
Sprawling
Today, he stands with maroon blanket as cape
Tied around his neck.
Warrior pose
It billows behind him
Bulging with the rush of hot air and hot bodies
Swarm.
Marinate on tiredness
His meeting mine.
Exhaustion of a different accord
notes strung together
Privilege as a different pitch
Intonation,
Our distance is between bars.
“Just keep walking”
She says
discomfort settles into my lungs
Croaking, dusty
That’s the thing about avoidance
secrets and thoughts and eyes masqueraded
Met with Silence
Look away.
But the feeling remains.
I picture him now, maroon Superman
presented with the ticket of Freedom
Gold and glittering
Money.
Tangled with
Mental wellbeing and mindfulness
Picture:
Yogis stretching in unison
Airy studio, 7 levels above
chaos.
Make space for his madness
Make space for his misery
Make space for his livelihood, his humanity, his god given right to
Exist
Ascendance
I move Up stairs, to light, to street
Sirens bleat
Gnawing
Rude interruption.
“What way is 7th avenue?”
He asks
I point:
“That way.”
“I’ve been in Vietnam for 25 years”
He says
“My goddaughter says i’m 188, but i’m actually 88”
His laugh is like a storm clapping
Thunderous
He’s wearing black suit, black sunglasses
I can’t see his eyes
It starts to drizzle
Stroll past park
Couples and children sit around fountain
Facing inward
Dipping feet in summer cool
“I only made out with her once”
He says
Bro with gait of machine
Connection i think.
People as connection.
Possession i think.
Possession as two bodies meeting each other
Half way
