he had the pinkest gums i'd ever seen. 

while we walked with our little frightened girl legs to 11th street wishing this was hookey.

one of them was very fat and they joked about the effects of the medication on their bowel movements. 

none of it was glamorous,

and all of it was loud.

we tried to keep the odor from our nostrils, pervading and comingling windex and terrible luck.

and we kept our mouths hard and shut as we rode the elevator to the fifth floor,

because our saliva was unnaturally hot and would probably turn red

if it was exposed to any kind of air. 

lots of things oozed and three of them had canes.

and they had friendly eyes as we sat in the plastic chairs, jaws that were withering, or would wither on friday. 

Optimism

we are good. 

we ignore the screams of children and the mentally ill the same way we butter our toast-

systematically.

our eyes and the streetlights become the same.

all moist orange, all weird silence.

malleable men move, each one in time with the rest.

all magnanimous at first instinct.

the screams though, push it back. 

we are good.

everything, all things, make(s) us bad.

we are good when we are puffy and clean, sticky and easily hurt-

like white rice. 

soon though, we are the subway's screech or the hand's smack.

we are turgid and slippery as we live more and more.

we become thin and oily like the hairs of a mean old pervert. 

and we like to sneer at misfortune and sniff out kindness to blow our nose in and defile.

we like to defile.

take and eat and imbibe and pluck the hairs of society until we are grossly obese. 

our eyes and the streetlights become the same, stumbling with our nails too long and scratching each other and bleeding and spotting our streets brown.

we are good?

sleepwalking

in june when we first laid eyes

all i wanted to do was love you, i knew you

boy in a sweater too warm for the weather,

eyes like crystal balls in which i would rarely see the wistful used-to. 

the you who laughed more and deeper than the slight shameful giggle,

ate oreos and played with wreckless joy in the filthy ball pits of fast food.

in september i met you again in the bronx,

when our hair was both long and we both still had freckles.

in your small unsatisfied room you spoke me your speech, 

so i met your dry lips of significance.

then in november your hapless hands led me into adulthood,

and i silently cried into your hair the same color as mine, like feather down of new chickens i'd hold in august.

in february the crystal balls had smashed and our freckles were gone.

you tore your posters down and chased me outside barefoot over solid ice.

in april i stood on the ground and screamed at your fifth floor window,

petty insults you'd counter with routine apathy.

of course an hour later i would sleepwalk into your dark room,

unlocked with shaking fingers of regret four numbers i knew better than a prayer.

in december when we last laid eyes

all i wanted to do was hate you, i knew you

the old room

today i smelled the old room

white and plain and still existing in spite of itself

or just in spite

my nose recognized its wants and woes

i know not why

feelings crushed like a red felt hat under a bus

the prickly tongue of an irritated cat

fangs that barely hurt but try to

at 7:00 am i heard the lilting tune of a singer

with my new morning eyes caught on the track numbers that mean nothing to anyone

he was underground's delirious star

beautiful motown voice betraying poverty and desperation

instead easy and rolling and warm and brown

colored by cognac or hennessy

my new morning eyes caught on the random track numbers

and i thought of the old room

weird poetry

everyone I’ve known

all lips that touched mine

fingers secret smell

eyes witnessed my tears

at the rips of ex-childhood

stolen teddy bear

trust encrusted

stop playing that song

devices to remember the leaves

or forget sullen swords

patterns we would walk or patterns of speech

absent no matter what

lost in a gutter

perhaps alphabet city

i see you're tilted wrong. so my head spins down the battered dust road and rolls like tumbleweeds in a black&white old west. or old sadness loitering in the doorway because it doesn’t know where to go. i still remember though, wisps of joy like your hair and hard-handed grip. grits on my teeth far too sweet like cupcake frosting.

today, tonight, tomorrow, 65 years ago?

i like watching the snow against the brick

in my little corner of new york city

silent and slow 

it is a watery diversion, everything ersatz

i should ration my thoughts

because today i am gobbling up the world with my eyes

then seeing you and getting scared

of jabs you're leaving, ash like red going gray

aftermath of a holocaust

permaglow of pain and love

tonight i'm so full and nostalgic

begging myself not to contact you 

wishing as i grip my sheets

that again you would rock me so

grabbing your hair dark brown going gray

premature endings and beginnings

and all the flavors akin to innocence lie still on my tongue

but tomorrow down avenues i will stomp resolute

resistance necessary to combat the slush of filth

soul stinging with my face

and the heat of the stars, the cold of pluto

did someone once lie with me in some eastern european field?

look in my eyes and marvel at the potatoes?

risk quick death for a purloined sausage?

in february

in february, my eyes are wide to 

vague apparitions on cold concrete

half frozen under the guise of stale season

old gray snow and salt of immaculate hue

hapless shroud over everything

something more than post traumatic

but my neck itches with stress at the end of the day

in the overcast hour of 4 o'clock

i am a sad shiva

trembling imperceptibly dragging the weight of so many

phantom limbs

bring me to the chapel and tell me everything

colored glass and stories will dance around our faces

waving like prayer flags in fervent wind of intentions

and i'll grip finally your hand 

and you'll feel my fingers grasp with the concern of love

and in my smile will be the tremble

not relief

thanking my silent rosary

adhd pigeons

I have a brain. I have just now realized how it works.

Today is the day that I begin a new method to work through the tribulations of unorganized thoughts.

1. I will do things when they occur to me

2. I will use my past missteps to plan for future successes

3. I will stop hating myself sometimes

4. I will make lists EVERY DAY so that I may actually carry out everything that I need to accomplish.

5. Of these lists, I will. not. rest. until. every. thing. is. checked.

6. I will keep a writer's notebook so I don't lose the short bursts of creative thought that fly in and out of my head. adhd pigeons. It's a love/hate relationship.

When I look at the homeless on the streets, My first feeling is pity, like everyone else. Then I get so terrified because I can't think of too much separating me from them, and their sad failure. I'm so afraid of failure.