Taste of Fall
September tastes like apple cider in New York City. I walked through Central Park in 5am darkness that pricked with the first bite of winter’s warning. Not as hard as what was said last night.
No one goes to the park this early. There’s me, a clan of serial joggers, a few cyclists and a couple of homeless people. I’m here because I have dogs. I have dogs because they get me out of the house. And it’s important for me to get out of the house, because I have habits.
I have habits for a couple of reasons.
There’s nothing like the solitude of the south part of the park this time of day. It becomes a few acres of yard shared between a certain set of locals. It’s ironic that I live in midtown Manhattan, because something about crowds stuns me. That’s why my mornings are critical. The quiet. Empty avenues and seemingly abandoned shop fronts mixed with the glow of 24-hour spots and restaurants getting ready to re-open.
I hate the cold. I thought about certain implications yesterday that made me shiver in a bad way. The last time I shook properly was two days before he left.
I’m strolling past The Pond and gazing at The Plaza on an empty path winding me back to Columbus Circle. Most people don’t live like this; wandering around in the dark of city parks, considering.
The first time I considered him, he asked what my middle name is and told me he doesn’t believe in God. He said he gets jealous and told me he loves me.
Everything becomes pumpkin this time of year. Pumpkin coffee, pie, soup and bread. I walk back into the west 50’s thinking about what a season brings.
The cold has already crept in.
less than (24 hours)
i explained. change.
like fall. collapsed says
foolish history cannot
sustain this real love.
past habit hits and inane
tidbits. useless chips
digging. with sharp nail
scratch. this surface
funnels. flashes. recede.
throw what you can’t hold.
time. never. it counted to me.
how we keep (stay)
you see. when he
and i combine it
is like tidal wave
pulling and pushing
and grabbing and
wet. i stay. remain
starts to be a style.
my midtown hips
his brooklyn hits;
when we are t(w)o-
gether. gathering rise
and sets. methods
i keep him. sun up,
sun down. cyclic
circle moving each
time he slaps in-
side with just me.
we stay. private.
with one. remaining.
“Got some dirt on my shoulder, could you brush it off for me?”
potential of possibility
he came and went. this style. of existence.
not knowing my stance that… everyone leaves.
i stopped my heart before it could commence;
rejecting this world for what i believe.
if he sees one truth, then let it be me.
his pieces snapped in. my kaleidoscope
gaze. he stared into me. what does he see?
endeavoring to mask my faith. my hope…
in my headspace walls, none of it matters.
i have rainbows of ways to deal and cope;
perceiving days as chaos and chatter.
looking around to only see absent.
with claws still dug in that some things are meant.
Namaste blog tribe
Most of our loyal cult affiliates are aware that my birthday never goes for only one day. It usually ebbs and flows for a week-ish and I spend the month of September shouting out the whole being born concept. I’ve always just felt if there’s one thing to celebrate, it’s your birthday.
Meanwhile, I’ve developed this affinity for bottle popping. You see, if you’re a feisty female ready to go out whenever, New York City club promoters take notice. That said, I’ve recently surrounded myself with a handful of Manhattan’s finest hailing from Italy to Brooklyn and a few spots in between.
There’s something enthralling about your phone sporadically igniting seven days a week with messages like, “Le Souk tonight? 11pm walk in. Bottles all night.” Such messages are often accompanied by a secret password you tell the doorman to skip the line and walk right inside.
It’s a bit pimped, really. (more…)