i’ll stand in the fiction aisle agonizing over potential purchases. union square. my head, momentarily quiet, a concept as foreign to me as love. i roam, my hands in the pockets of a dilapidated sweatshirt i abducted from that bar bathroom he pushed me into that night. you have a girlfriend. i hope this feeling plants itself deep inside the roots of me. but 20 minutes later i’m on 2nd Avenue persuaded by some off kilter chemistry that changes its shape into some form of mania.
i think i sit on a downtown R train. I must because the next thing i know i’m on 94th and 4th in a church and then the next thing i know i’m walking on the Verazzano with no pedestrian lane. police officers with familiar accents ask me what the fuck is wrong with me. there is banter about Bellevue and 5150s. then i’m in a Duane Reade at dawn wandering aisles filling a cart only to dump all the shit out at the door. at 93 and 4th i’ll stop in a moment of well deserved lucidity. i know as sick as i am, this is still heaven to me.


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2 responses to “

  1. Anonymous

    Everytime I read something you’ve written, I think of a Thomas Newman song in the background. Like White Oleander or something.

  2. i have missed your words so much. i agree with the above commenter too–something reminiscent of janet fitch in your writing, which i think has to do with the honesty in your words.

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