the world and writing of a nyc writer

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Category: writing (page 1 of 79)

your socks

The last night I saw you was the only night my dog ever pissed on my floor. She did it while you were here doing drugs in my bathroom that were delivered by my dealer in a silver BMW about twenty minutes ago.

These are things that happen in Manhattan.

I’ve known you for almost two years now and you have begged and pleaded and played on the weakness my divorce cut me with and broke both of my knees.

I’ve given you a lot. Too much. Things I will never get back. Things you will never deserve. But if you ever thought I would give you the number of my delivery service – you played yourself.

My weed dealer, Victor, is Dominican. He has wide shoulders and a trusting smile and I would lie under oath for him in a heartbeat. I might have to too, because this is the United States of America, a police state. Civilians lost rights here years ago.

I can’t wait to go back to Australia.

I would do anything for Victor. Outside of my parents and sister, there is a barely visible circle of alliances I hold dear and closer than anything. You were never part of it, and you never will be.

When you fall out of my bathroom door I reach for your shoes, beside my doorway. I don’t think you want them, and we know you want to stay. But that’s far in the past now.

So I open the door, while you’re still standing there in your socks.

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éveil internationale

I’ve been writing in French lately…

éveil internationale

et ses paroles sont devenues
mon pinceau. mon inspiration.
mon amour.
soudain,
je pensais en français…
pinot noir. creme brule.
baisers à Manhattan en –
rêvant de l’Australie.
et mon monde
élargi. couleurs
que tout a commencé
quand j’ai regardé dans les yeux.

international awakening

and his words became
my paintbrush. my inspiration.
my love.
suddenly
i was thinking in french…
pinot noir. creme brule.
kissing in manhattan –
dreaming of australia.
and my world
expanded. colors
that all started
when i looked in his eyes.

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hurricane draft

hurricane draft

when it started…
hearing his voice
(like sunlight on your face)
became… natural.
and his words
were… (wind in your hair)
Art.
to make you. pace.
blown away –
(mon trésor, mon amour)
cattails.
floating on the breeze.

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safe bet

safe bet

i would never
tell
how he invited
he asked and begged
and i did…
not.
i never made any
assumption.
like, what he
wishes i would
think about
providing. i could
consider to bring
someone in.
(i heard he
keep his promises.)

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evaporation (of self)

evaporation (of self)

can you recall? reaching. without.darkness
was knowing how to smile. without. smiling
like a canvas with no painter. artless.
what do i know? a silence in writing.
i physically broke. time. 36 months
of panting and turning with no wake up.
and no one looked. for me… not even once.
i screamed and i smashed. i cracked. a glass cup
spilt. it’s ok. i can clean that. clear. gone.
a calculated step means no. erase.
she inhaled pollution and exhaled songs;
verses of better with no pace or race –
do you remember? how to walk? no… sound;
single rhythm dance. a place with no ground.

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