Skip to content

Keep on ignoring. There is nothing to gain.

July 29, 2010

If someone tells you they miss you, but you’re pretty sure they didn’t realize that until after they’d done whatever it is that made you go away in the first place…maybe it means almost nothing. My hair’s a mess. Everything I eat makes me sick. It’s my body’s way of saying “maybe you were right to deny us for so long”, because I get what I want (what I want gets me) and then I am down for the count.

Even now, if someone said and did the right things…I’d be right back where I started.

NYC eats its young/Kills its own/Sucks its fingers clean afterward

Walk across the same bridge someone’s been trying to sell you for a decade now. Look down. See four lanes. Look further. Bedrock. You’re suspended high above the East River (119 feet, if you want particulars), surrounded by everyone else who thought walking to and from Brooklyn was a good idea on a Wednesday night. It’s hot and your hair is curling. A fellow poet (broken heart) is by your side. You want to be closer to the water (“I am a Pisces fish and the river runs through my soul”), you settle for the limited view.

I’ve been reading Frank O’Hara, Whitman, Gottlieb. One of these names is not like the others. Anything written about the grass and concrete and waking up naked with strangers, I’ll take.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. July 29, 2010 10:45 pm

    Treat yourself to a haircut, woman. And no, I’m not down with the idea of you being tempted to chop it all off (like suggested elsewhere?). But, do something. A trim. A new “do.” And I will hand feed you if I must.

    Walking bridges, with fellow poets, will always be amazing. ❤ I know this.
    NYC eats its young but keeps us standing.
    The snow drifts low
    and yet neglects to cover me, and I
    dance just ahead to keep my heart in sight.
    How like a queen, to seek with jealous eye
    the face that flees you, hidden city, white
    swan. There's no art to free me, blinded so.
    (from A City Winter, O'Hara)

    I am also reading Whitman. Grass, baby Grass.

    Fuck. I feel like writing. and reading. and talking poetry face-to-face with ya.

  2. July 30, 2010 6:26 pm

    HA. Grass, baby grass/
    grass baby, graaaasss

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s