the art director tagged my name in silver on my favorite midnight street; so young, so young, all the bars & streets are adventures when the city is a ghost town on a gorgeous night at 3something. we kept it consistent, tully neats, many, because the rise of the other irish whiskeys, is just a decade's worth of subway marketing coming to fruition. when we are old, they will say that only old men drink jamesons, because the young will be drinking something else.

i've got a silver ring on a black thread. what's it signify? a silvery fancy that caught my eye on a saturday afternoon. i've got my third tungsten replacement sitting in the bottom of my book bag. a pretty aging thing wore too many diamonds, dangling from two symmetrical holes in her lobes, a tiara, because all gold-diggers are princesses, a cuff, a collar, and so many rings, except for the commitment ones. she mostly ignored her slightly sleazy, ugly, beta-y, significantly older date. i bet she tells him that she's old-fashioned and likes to be treated like lady, and is wide-eyed & girlish at all compressed carbons.

as a child, when patrons came in, and i'd be doodling or doing my math homework or sometimes reading the paper, because intelligent children occasionally like to read expensive rags, i'd suggest the pink ones, because regular ones were boring. when did shiny cut & polished crystals begin to signify love?

love is a poem. love is fiction. love is creativity. love is not roses, but a bouquet that i deconstructed, into a richly-colored blossom, left on every lonely parking meter, or bench, or closed shop door, for the first stranger to claim it.

love doesn't happen on a beautiful tuesday afternoon when all i want to do is lay in my bed, or move to some new space in the city, where i can be alone in all the sunshine.

i want to curl up in the quiet. next boy that i fall in love with, i need you to know, sometimes, i just need to lay there, and if you'd hold me, that'd be nice.

blue. jazz in the shower, & then requiem in the city. yesterday was beautiful. played guitar on my fire escape, baked banana bread. watched a ginger fluff play.

feeling a little vulnerable. don't know why. it's not a feeling i like.

gonna go sit in the pretty feelings of sad, smoky chanteuses/pianos/bass/guitars. that's what good jazz bars are for, besides pre-hook-up cocktails, and honest conversations with strangers.

i don't like disappointment, so i push. maybe if i was less combative, but i'm not that comfortable with easy intimacy. we could fuck, yes, and that's about it, isn't it? more is hard. the bare minimum is the bare minimum. not that sex is so only or so little; it's great, but i'm wanting for something a little more emotionally satisfying. i was made a little unconventional when i was grown in a woman's body; loner, blasé & introspective type with all the girl parts, and i kind of like myself as i am.

the poetry & the music comes, because for all the languages i acquire, the emotions speak less straightforwardly. i have poor mastery of satisfactory communication. i'm never satisfied with the words i use.

i don't want to say things like, i love you, because what does that mean? but i want to make love to you, to you, beyond just your body, and deep in where you feel, because you inspire that feeling in me, to want to do things beyond my own gratifications. words are easy, and you mean more than easy. for what you do for me, because you exist, because you live your life, because you love what you love, and dislike what you dislike, and simply are you because you could not be anyone else, you deserve a rap song both serious and playful, or a melody, or a well-executed blowjob and then some. feelings and feelings. existence is colored with emotion.

do you feel? what makes you feel? what are all these generic questions that you're going to have difficulty answering? how could you possibly love a weird girl?

and then it's more questions, but then, i'm not talking to you anymore, but myself. why do i need to be comforting? it's the need for connection on that specific level.

lonely people keep going out, having hope in unlikely places, looking to make a lasting connection. so much disappointment, in that little way, that is sometimes easy to deal with, sometimes hard. i don't think about forever, but i want you to be happy in the moments i've got with you. i want us to be happy, and have that feeling that feels so good, even if it's gone in a few hours, gone in the week, gone & gone.

i do have questions. i have so many questions, like, what makes you lonely? what made you cry last? can i kiss you? can i be close with you, even though i'm not comfortable with closeness most days when i'm feeling vulnerable? sometimes i feel vulnerable even though i know i've got a resilience to me.

woke. don't remember the dream.

mixture of physically tired, restless, wistful, wanderlusty, and cold. the humidity's been bothering me. i don't think i've been warm all day. sometimes you just want to wake up in the middle of the night, wrapped in warm blankets, in a hot room, because that moment of temperature-contentedness will be just what a soul needs, to fall back asleep easily, & happily.

i fell asleep pretty comfortably.

sleeplessness is probably how i got to know pbs a little too well.

this is a little bit of what living alone might feel like, when everyone is asleep, and i am awake. i'd take a walk, but this isn't the neighborhood for it, at this hour. i'd take my dog for a walk if i had one.

when i was young, this was prime paper-writing/ web-designing / painting time. bad sleep habits never quite go away, i guess. i wish there was someone awake to talk with. i'd exhaust my brain.
my mind's so loud. people just want to exhaust their sex drives; what about my brain?

playing cerebral games solo is like masturbation; at some point you just want another brain, another living mind to fuck, to make love to, to battle, maybe collaborate with, creatively.

thunder & lightning in the city, and i'd like to go sleep. i'd like for so much.

busy weeks, busy years. i love my friends. i love my true collaborators even more, who are my favorite souls. it's the hunger & drive & the need for fantastic execution, and they get it. so many easy routes to success, but they don't satisfy or challenge in the way that both hurts and feel so good. you can follow a clear, straightforward path, or you can just veer and go your own way. i have the best partners in kicking ass.

maybe i'll die before i achieve all the things i want. notes on mortality, things i think about generally, but lately, it's less philosophical musing, and more like a felt-reality. emotion makes all the difference in a concept being a cerebral plaything, or a factor in how one lives, presently.

i love my jazz. dead singers, melody, you are my fave companions. / i wonder how differently i'd be sleeping if i went out to catch tail instead of staying in. i could've theoretically rescheduled my morning, or've just made it work, but i didn't. i'm tired of making little inconveniences for myself. it's little sacrifices, and nobody really cares if i dick myself, or if i don't. (ha, ha, ha.)

i still want to move. i need a new space. i've been looking, so whatever. i don't want just any new space, but i'm sure i'll find the right place. while i'm being wishful, i want someone to love. i mean, i know i'm not at a dearth for friends & people to love, but it's that desire for a partner where it's like, hey, you, if you're sick, i'll make you soup because you need soup, but also, i kind of adore you, for just being human & alive in a je-ne-sais-quoi way that makes me happy.

love is like finding the perfect book, and it just makes you happy, because of the serendipity, but also, because you exist in the same universe of this wonderful thing, and you have found it, so you are never existentially alone anymore.

i don't feel like i'm existentially alone, which is excellent. my dude is out there. maybe i already met him, and i'm just oblivious to the obviousness of how awesome it'd be, or maybe i haven't yet, and we're about to encounter, but whatever. life is life. is short. is a rose, or rather, is a chrysanth, because i love those flowers. they're hardy and bold-beautiful, and they smell amazing. sure, they're not as soft or conventionally floral as other flowers, but they don't decay ugly.

a boy stopped by my bar the other night to tell me that he sold the little puppy that i loved, to a good owner. then he left. later, he came back with a rose. he picked up a bouquet for his friend's birthday, and decided to bring me a flower too.

i think gestures are cliche, but recognizing the cliche doesn't make it feel any less sweet. it made my evening a little lovelier. i talk cynical-cerebral, but i'm touched by all the little things. the thought counts.

also i really wanted that puppy. i cradled that adorable dude for the longest time.

on a different tangent, orgasms are great, but i want a guy who'll love me for being my silly weird self. high demands, i know. earlier i was kidding around with my best friend, and i was all like, man, some girls just want a guy to like them and do mushy boyfriend stuff like get dressed up and go to restaurants and be quiet at each other and give each other stinky flowers, and i just want a dude who likes hanging out with me and playing videogames and doing dorky artsy stuff. not that i'm not down to femme-up and go out, but i can already do that myself. the problem is that plenty of dudes are down to hang, but i have zero desire to sleep with most of them, and most of them aren't into good music or videogames or most of the stuff i like. that's like, zero connection. maybe i'll die alone because i need a guy to be funny, intelligent, relatively cute, relatively genuinely kind, driven, ambitious, self-aware, passionate about his interests, AND be mildly superhuman, while being also super human & mildly flawed in ways i'm going to find endearing.

also, i suspect marriage is for 50, 60-somethings. they seem to like it best. everyone else seems to kinda just grit their teeth through it, but maybe that's just the having kids & a family thing, which seems a little forced. contractual child-rearing!

the stuff of rainy day dreams

i took a trip to another coast, another city, to get away for a few days. it rained. the trip still exhausted me.

the truth is, the only solace is within the city in my heart, which is the city i already live in.

i just need to spend some time alone. took a long drive to the airport. was late for my flight because of the rain. missed it. a whole slew of people were late because of the weather. they would put us all on the next flight, comp'd. in the waiting-auditorium full of hundreds of chatting strangers, i spotted friends.

they had also taken unannounced vacations. some were in a group together; my old poker-playing/gaming cohorts who i spent my late high school evenings with, who i haven't seen in a few years. my beloved theatre duo, who broke my heart by growing cynical & bitter & ugly in humanity. they were happier now, growing beautiful again, separately, with different souls. they all were caught up in their return trips, & the chaos of flight delays. so many people i was once close with, and i was relieved to be unnoticed. they looked wonderful from far away, and i wanted to keep it that way. i slipped off for quiet & to buy duty-free souvenirs for my littlest sister.

and going different paths, i ran into him, my last ex-lover. the rush didn't come. he was like a stranger who i had no bad feelings towards. i apologized in passing for some antics that didn't matter anymore, and we laughed, not too deeply, and that was it, we were off to different destinations.

all these strangers. i went back to the waiting room, and tired, i fell asleep waiting. i woke to a mostly empty room. i missed my flight again. if i was traveling with my best friend, she wouldn't've let me miss my flight, but i was traveling solo.

they weren't going to comp me another flight, and i realized, it didn't bother me. i could afford a flight home. i could afford a flight, to anywhere. i perused the available flights.

it was still raining. i could go anywhere, and it'd likely be raining. there's always a route home. all other destinations, are optional interludes. the next direct flight home, was tomorrow morning.
 i left the airport, and went straight to another one.

i walked the long path to the other terminal, in the rain. i've worked in cold pouring rain, in dirty, flooding slums, in mostly darkness, for hours, for what i loved. rain in the dark, was nothing, especially on a paved, clean asphalt road. the light in the distance was enough.

i've taken longer roads on mountain paths, in marshes & swamps. i've been cold, in snow & ice, & too hot. with various companions, & also alone. i love my streets more than seemingly endless plains of grass, more than white, sandy beaches.

i've seen my city in fog, & i've wandered in it.
i've seen my city with fireflies & lovers, and it is always kissed by everything, from lamplight, to rain, to dusk, to all the moods of the poets, & the steps of souls.

they had a flight leaving in the next hour, so i took it. and then i woke.

chalk. chalk, black paper. the
methodical nod, up down
meaning in the crushed, compact bones
set against a grain of soaked
emaciated pulp.

there is a girl
in my mind
who walks barefoot in the rain
which comes
down like starlight
through the broken lens
of storm drains.

if there was poetry, she would be going somewhere, a character set in some tragedy, in the midst of suffering, before triumph, and beauty, and dry clothes, in lovingly crafted rooms.

what is this feeling? when the girl finds rooms like the ones in the interiors-gallery of the city-museum, what is there, but floors, to sit on quietly?

beds, and chairs. cushions & sheets. the stillness of life, kills. babies wail down the hall, though the floors are waxed & gleaming. this is a very nice kitchen. knick-knacks here, salt & pepper shakers there. the ugliness of napkins, in this utilitarian holder here.

this is all a cave.