Late Night Thank You Note

So I want to thank you, even though I am not quite sure if the "you" should be the Divine or the pianist.

You took something dismal and redeemed it into one of the most magical things i have witnessed in my entire life.

I had to force myself to go out tonight, and into the city at that. I hate Manhattan at night. Not because of crime or anything like that, but because it is "Manhattan at Night" It is an entity entirely different from myself, that lives on adrenaline, serotonin, and fruity-flavored vodka cocktails. I have very little common ground, and am prejudiced against it anyway from the start.


I like Brooklyn, I love Ditmas. I HATE "manhattan at night", the borough that never sleeps, and never thinks about who it sleeps with or what it says.

I left early, because i have things tomorrow. And I was tired of not wanting to play pool or have another PBR, which is all I can afford, but will not get me anymore buzzed and just make me fatter and tireder. Circumstances foundation enough to give my cross-town-blocks walk in the subfreezing weather without a hat (or bonnet) an air of doom and gloom. And by the time I got to the station, I was fighting myself on why I live in New York when I hate its face so much.



And thats when it happened, the occasion prompting this thank you note. Jolted out of my self-indulgnt why me-isms, full-bodied red-wine notes engulf me. Jumping back and forth from the platforms and hiding in the dark tunnel, but still pi-ah-no enough to be gentle and sweet and real, and still a shy enough sound to know that it is young and has learning to do. The sound from the box gathers information and wisdom as it bounces on the tiles and tracks, and I stop dead. Confronting how I should be allowed to see something so beautiful with such ugliness in my heart.
Suddenly glad that it is not noon. It wouldn't be nearly the same.
And glad that it is not summer. The labor of the player in the cold only adds weight and gravity to the task.
And glad that I am alone on a Saturday night. Not still stuck at a too slick bar taking the money I don't have, meeting the men I don't want.

Because, this? This is magical
and romantic,
and sublime,
and one of the most heart breaking things I have ever seen.

Thank you.

ps: I don't want to take your picture. You seemed like you didn't like me for that thought.

two, and third and coffee stains

Today's poem, and a rediscovered older one:


truly beautiful people
white woman
black man
fuzzy pilled scarf
long well kept dreads
little baby nested in between her breasts
and his almond croissant crumbs
a Parisian/latin/loungy song comes on
they hum, to baby, or each other, or the rest of the coffee shop
alternating parts
as if it was their well rehearsed dance
but if you really look
they are completely unaware they are making music
even less so of their synchronosity



All my clothes are black and coffee stain color,
because I live that way.
I don’t buy white, and
“This is why we can’t have nice things”

and I have a certain pride in that.

Sometimes I think I am scared of the possibility of marriage not because of the commitment or pressure, but because I know there is no way I would get through an entire day wearing white and not spill. Especially being a redwine drinker.

Winter Activities

For Grandma and the other dead:

It seems to me, that death is something sharp at first and then softens in time.

In a tombstone freshly chiseled, harsh and black characters;

and then when more time has passed after the final date, 

longer than the mortality lying within the dash,

when having proved a lasting power longer than its predecessor, 

death becomes the norm, the average state of being,

then the letters and numbers fade;

after countless harsh Wisconsin blizzards and rains.

And eventually, 

with writing and edges so soft and smooth that even the visitors that come to see you, 

who never really knew you, 

want to gently tip over your marker and use it as a pillow 

for their tired heads

and their heavy souls.

Then death is a comfortable pallet we all walk towards,

or slink, or waltz,

the wiser of us knowing that in its lasting power

is truth

and hospitality.

Election Update

So, I realize this hasn't been updated in very long, and unfortunately, it took a very judgmental comment by Mr. Richard (see down there?  where it shows I censored his comment?), but here is my take on the election process this year thus far.  

Both candidates fail to impress me.  No one will give a straight answer.  They have both lied about the other to try and get a leg up.   Both sides, despite professing moderation and bipartisanship have fundamentalists that take the race away from workable issues, and reroute in anger and distrust of the unknown.  Politics sucks and seem to get done in two years what most NGO's (with equal bank) get done in 9 months.  It's a shot in the dark, because there are less and less ways to get a politician to do what he said he would do once he has the power of office.  There is always a way  to swing things in your favor, when you have the upper hand.

Yes Richard, I am your worst nightmare.  Third party here I come.

Heartburn and Heartache.

Ug.  No matter what those little unsalted green/brown/magenta nuggets of goodness whisper to you, pistachios won't help your heart burn.

I felt the need to share this.  I am still not sure what I think if the election this year.  I question anyone who says they do.  I've just been a little despondent since Edwards dropped.  Regardless, I will probably be a vote for Obama or not vote at all.  Still depends.

Spooky, in't it?
I will be so pissed at America if you do it again. Seriously, I won't even invite you to my birthday parties, and at our thirty year reunion when people ask, "Hey, whatever happened to America?" I will just scowl and get all slitty-eyed and make a face that lets them know I DON'T want to talk about you.

The Eye to London

So AM New York offered me an illuminating article this morning about the "Telectroscope" at the foot of the Brooklyn anchorage for the bridge by the same name.    The back story was delightful, as were the three images included in the short piece.  But what has captured me the most in this fine example of journalistic prowess is the new addition to my vocabulary it has afforded.  "...a 3,000-mile tunnel lined with mirrors, creates this jaw dropping artistic example of 'steampunk' (a term used to describe a fusion of Victorian style and futuristic technology)."  While I feel like I must have heard the term before, I think it is fair to say, and if you know me at all, you will agree, that this word will soon become a favorite in my lexicon.

Sometimes you can't help but love it when the media openly embraces a lie.  I can't find the specific article online, but here's a little more information.

Top Five "steampunk" related items:

1. The City of Lost Children directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet

2. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

3.  This guy

4. This entire article from Wired Magazine

5. Stardust by Neil Gaiman

Audio Learner+Visual Learner does not= AV Learner

So I have been working at this real estate group for 6 weeks now.  Here's my main problem.  Relational being that I am I am going nuts that everyone I meet here has a duel personality.  It is not through any fault of their own.  

It's just as if I have met twice the people.  The phone voices, and the suited faces.  Spare a handful of people who walk up to the front and TALK to me once in a while, I see and smile at people when they come in and out, even carrying on a friendly banter with some of them, but the minute I buzz their desk, who knows which one is which.

I wonder if this situation has any commonalities with phone sex?