Brunch in Manhattan

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

2. Pigeons

3. Jews

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.

And so the dance goes on.



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.