New York, New York is one big, complex, endless dance that is completely improvised. The streets and avenues run the dance floor bustling with juking taxis and jiving pedestrians. Every traffic signal, every car horn, every flashing billboard, every neon sign, every jaywalker, every “fuck you” and “fuck me” and “I love you, you goddamn cheating son of a bitch” move to the rhythm of this city’s beating heart. There is a tourist for every New Yorker, and a New Yorker for every pigeon. Well, more like every 12 pigeons. Those fuckers are everywhere– I mean seriously, if an alien were to observe the dominant organisms of NYC, it would put them in this hierarchy: 1. Cars
4. Everyone Else
It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t murdered each other with all this shoulder to shoulder, bumpin’ and grindin’, humpin’ and kissin’, cryin’ and sweatin’, laughin’ and scootin’, slappin’ and pickpocketin’ and dancin’ madness. It could make a grown man cry. And it does. Seriously, find the nearest homeless man and hand him your whole wallet and see the waterworks. Either he cries or he’ll shank you with a sharpened spoon he used to smoke crack. Either way it’s a win-win, for him at least– he gets a shitload of money to buy more crack in either outcome.
So bring all your weary and your merry men and women and other genders that are haphazardly slapped onto half the bathrooms here, for this city has a place for everyone, from the Wall Street Execs to the Struggling Actress/Waitress to the Hand Holding Annoying Couple to the Wheelchair Bound Cerebral Palsy Man Just Trying to Get a Few Bucks By Playing a Broken Fiddle So He Can Make It to the Other Side of Town Where He Sleep Under A Different Bridge Tonight. Either way, every one in New York, New York is a New Yorker.
I was actually happy when it snowed. Feeling the liquor. I was laying on your jacket. Mine too. You always come, but never stay. I haven’t had time to shower because of you. Fuck.
These words I just told you are the clearest memories I can retain from the days before I wrote this poem. Clarity is something precious. It is also something people take for granted. Like clothes– I slept naked for the past few days. And fuck it, it felt great. It’s seems like I learned the most from you while I was naked, first lesson being the importance of cuddlingus. Second one being to not bring up my depression around you cuz it’s a turn off. Third one being that a suicide letter is in no way a love letter. So I am Counting the freckles like the stars that guide me as I capsize my heart in an ocean of me. Me in a storm of pills, with antidepressant antichrists ending my humanity. No feeling is better than pain, cuz the pain you gave me was too much to handle. So I turned to sedation. That night I walked into the woods swearing I would finish myself off with an overdose of sedation sensation that has relation to my melodramatic realization. I was going to drown myself that night. Until I called you, and said every pill I was going take that night was a symbol, and as a poet you know how I love symbols. Each pill represented every promise you made me swallow– every pill a contract we wrote in pizza grease and diner breakfast. These symbols we made for each other in the hope that they would represent something greater than us– that we would stitch our words into wings and ascend to our greater beings. But you said you had commitment issues. You see, the only issue you had was that you saw commitment as an issue. You spent too much time looking at your hicky scars to realize the loving kisses that put them there. Besides that, you were imperfectly perfect. You gave into fear like Anakin gave into hate. You caved cuz the faces of others clouded your perspective like drops of kool-aid in water. Too long I’ve waited for someone like you, and obviously you still want to wait. Well I guess I have to wait with you, cuz if I can’t have those swing dancing ugly hats you threw at me, I don’t know if I can resist walking into those woods again.
But I digress, what I’ve said about you so far is the shriveled gremlin of my heart that still clings to your memory. The better part of me has moved on to the present day, where only your lessons live on like flowers in my garden of bruises. You planted the seed of a man where my child self lives, bloodied my face so I can feel the reality dripping down my cheeks. I was a cartoon that you made real again. And all the thoughts that ought to stop buzzing and fuzzing my brain like insane in the membrane making me bite into fruits that shoot me full of lies that tantalize the sadness of a boy who just wants to be heard! …Clarity is something precious. So when I speak of you, i speak clearly. I think not of how you hurt me, but of what you taught me: to first remember the importance of cuddlingus, to second always bring up my depression around you cuz you’ll be turned off enough to help me defeat my depression, and to third let my suicide letters be merely fuel for the fire that burns the relentless compassion we share together. And that’s all I have left for you– love.
And so the men of wood, stone, and steel, after a day in the rain, return to their homes made of plastic.
But my home, O, my home, is made of wax, dripping golden hands down wooded floors, fragrant with the power of Pine-Sol, baby. The floor’s boughs way heavy with the scars of wolves at play, joy bleeding from their wounds like paper cuts from an old spell book. Spells of dancing, spells of laughter; spells of worry, spells of despair. So much doubt… But despair no more, child, for we have scriptures ripe to replace yours! Vibrate through the echoes of our fathers, and swear upon the oak mantle that you are descendant. Soak your tongue on the ashes of our stone heroes, burned to a crisp by the dragons they sought to slay. Join their side on that oak mantle as you chase your very own damsel in distress and don’t stress the distress you press against the corridor walls of your heart and please in part ignore the stars that dart through your eyelids cuz those celestial masterpieces were not made for you. Do not love the dragon that stole your damsel; that love is not made for you. Burn your wick on the oak mantle here in your home of wax, made just for you.
You think your heart is safe dangling in front of your face like a fresh apple stabbed by an icicle that is infested with termites that dance to un-heard music of which is just a spell cast by the chameleons surrounding us who are now leeching onto our faces like ticks a tic-toc we gonna be dried raisins by the time these vampire lizards get their fill but I forget that it is your heart I speak of, so let me speak of it: BLEED BLOOD BLED let the ambrosia of your legs coat the back of my mind like ice cream stuck in my throat CLAW CLAWS CLAWED let my fingers slip under that umbrella that shield your feet from tears BITE BITES BITTEN let my fangs sink into the stem of your blooming face—aka lets fuck.
I feel like pickles. Yep. Squishy yet somewhat hard with a sweetly sour taste.
I feel like pickles. Long and green, thick in the formaldehyde that has them frozen in a jar.
I feel like pickles. Bumpy and jumpy, flawed in texture to the point where the mere sight of them makes you cringe and shiver and spit and rip words like stems of flowers and other poetic shit that describes how you talk shit and don’t give a shit about whether or not I give a shit… Which I don’t. I do, but I don’t. I try to slide my pancakes down the apron of the stage like the fat ugly cook I am with a talent out-gauged with a bit of butter and a pinch of sage– and what do you do? You Eat waffles. Goddamn Belgian waffles. A year ago I liked you; a year ago I didn’t know you.
Now I still don’t know you, but you shouldn’t look at me like you’ve got some magic telescope that says my mind “ain’t dope” and you skip the “hellos” and go straight to the “nopes”
while I sit in the Jell-O of that waddle-waddle soap and breathe your eyes that spawn inner convos of one-sided nature– I can’t cope.
So I don’t give a shit that you’ve got none to give. Go sit in your pie, I’ve got mountains to climb. But if you do find some shits to give, let me know–
Cuz I still feel like pickles.
One year ago today, I was… a Testicle. Now before you crucify me for living as such an abomination, allow me to explain my ascent to enlightenment and how the approving Native American is involved.
‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all the Arizonans were tucked in there beds all tight. Mexicans in Twinkie trucks crossed the border, and IHOP was still open for your midnight order.
A lonely owl hooted a broken tune (it had enough rat in its throat to clog a bassoon) while crackheads shared a trash-can feast with a not-too-rabid raccoon.
Well I don’t give two shits about immigrants, owls, bassoons, or even raccoons, cuz I live in North Carolina. So why am I telling you a story about Arizona? Because that is the very place my blind stereotyped mind pictures a Native American reservation to be.
So why all this nitty-gritty depressing imagery? And why am I asking you questions, when I’m going to answer them myself anyway?
Well that’s because everyone likes IHOP. Especially a wandering Native American who has decided to leave the fenced-in reservation because all the close-minded Testicles (a “Testicle” is any one person who wishes to be a lump in a sack of flesh that hangs beneath a human male’s genitals and then proceeds to be a total asshole in life) have been getting him down and he just needs to escape before the madness of being trapped consumes him entirely and the only thing that lifts his dwindling spirits from falling into a void of evils forbidden that I promised that I will NEVER DO–
Is an IHOP. Open at midnight, as always. Its bountiful supply of nocturnal pancakes are enough to cheer up the poor Native American, and that’s all he needs to approve of you.
Beef cats ride the elephants painted as dragons into deeper tunnels on the Kraft cheese moon that orbits the crumbling hump of tiger temples echoing the hearty hurrahs of pharaohs nonexistent whom once thought of flying on the backs of shell-less turtles but were instead eaten by the snakes hidden behind their own lips– only now can the sheep-fish run free to die all over again.