Criminal

Who are you today,
sometimes I need to know.
I tried to google you
but haven't the courage
to type your name,
can't, won't, even
say it aloud.
I see you often
in the face of others
and in my nightmares but
differnt forms.
I know, I KNOW,
that if I were to locate you
I wouldn't be able to
stop myself from all
the things I've often
wanted to do in
return, revenge,
that which you deserve.
Or mabye just prove
that you didn't ruin me,
ruin my life. Fuck it up for
good. But then at times i've
allowed you to ruin my life,
you murdered a part in me,
the part that knew no fear
of who she wanted to be.
Now who I am is in some ways
defined by you, you who
had no right to enter my
life. I hate you, I feel for
you, I even sometimes long to
talk to you, hoping you would
confess your actions and
apologize. A fantasy I carry
with me into the darkest
depths to which I can sink.
That's where you are. Still
hidden in that black cave
of my tortured mind,
with no guilt or empathy
for me. And I go
there often, still, even
after all this time.

W to Ditmars

I sat next to your
brawn on the subway today,
and kept sliding closer,
feeling drawn.
I like not knowing you
but craving to be near.
Your legs are thick,
twice the size of my own,
and those sholders,
so broad, screaming
for my head to rest upon.
Hunched over, elbows on knees,
I see the profile
of your dark skin,
and you glimpse from
the corner of your eye
as I write.
I am a thief, baby,
I laugh to myself,
stealing a moment from you
on this long, lonely ride.

I remember that day
in the soccer field, the
cosmos exploding above us.
I've never felt like
that again. Oh
what you did to me.
The day we met,
tunnel vision,
no one else in the room.
The feeling of swirling around
into a twister and being
sucked up into you.
It was at its best because
I knew you felt it too.
I live only to feel that
freakish force of nature
again.

Too many thoughts go to waste
before finding any paper
that I can't get back,
can't remember.
So I drink red wine
with peaches in it
now that it's summer
turning my teeth purple,
hoping it will relax me
just enought to get those
creative nectars flowing.
But it just makes me tired
and sleepy or too drunk to
hold my pencil,
which is all the same
to me
because I have to keep
sharpening the damned thing
anyway, and I can't find
my eraser.

This guy I know
he's not too bright.
Or he's brilliant,
I haven't yet
made up my mind.
He plays with me and
then forgets me, or
does he,
I don't know.
One day he's there
lingering and the next
gone, becoming distant
trying hard to force
my hand, or maybe not.
He'll love me next week
but not today,
I guess I can't blame him
I think I do the same.

liquid oozing out
of you into my inches
soothing my sores,
taking me over and
pasting to my skin
the essence of
your soul.
inside, vibrations
heat and intensify
shooting, at the speed
of sound from within
my core, surrounding
each of my organs
with a deep layer of
tingly denseness,
boiling them
so sublime.

Everyone has them, those moments when you feel as if you're walking on air. Sixty seconds where you say to yourself 'God I love this city, I don't want to be anywhere else'. They are so definitive, and truthful. Such moments of clarity. It almost feels like being captured during a game of hide and seek. Stumbling upon a percussionist, pounding superbly on his flimsy instruments in the street, I had one of those today. And following, many of the others came rushing back to me. Walking down 6th street, gazing at all the Indian restaurants and their beaming lights and colors, that feeling of unity and the eye contact made with other train passengers when a complete lunatic walks on shouting and flailing about, the smell of a dark, damp, off, off, off broadway theatre, finding the all too perfect cute, eclectic shoe that fits and is on sale, the way the sun sets on the gold domed roof atop this certain building downtown. One of my favorites of these moments was walking home last summer after seeing a documentary. A particular film I had been long awaiting for.(I only regret that I didn't smuggle in some red wine or a beer to have my own private toast during.) It was a hot, steamy summer day, the kind that just begs for the thunderstorm you know is lurking. I had missed the storm completely, and when walking home the air was, if possible, even steamier with massive puddles everywhere that I puposefully walked trhough. I meandered, my pace slow and casual instead of the standard New York-borderline-sprint, appreciating the heat after freezing in the cold a/c of the theatre, musing over the experience and just existing in the moment. Taking delight in all I have learned by living here.
It is ironic to me, how some of the best times to be had in this city are, without a doubt, experienced alone.

I still believe in love.
I still believe in love.
I still believe in love.
It has to be out there.
I still believe in love.
I still believe in love.

For the hot and bothered.

What the fuck, it's only June. 91 degrees.

Sharpness rolling by,
wetness on black.
The light flickers
every now and then.
A low hum,
rumbling through
the thickness,
for a moment
confines.