My darling sister Siki sent me the prompt “I am from…” a few days ago.
After a few days of stirring, meditating, wandering around and dreaming, I sat down with hot coffee this morning and wrote some fresh words. Thank you Siki for including me in the exercise, such a lovely phrase to begin with!
in order to be part of
“I am from…” was heard quietly. Leaves rustling. Harp strings. Distant.
You turn to another reflection pool, similar in shades of indigo and gold as all of the others you’ve seen. Every one.
You never considered where they were from, too encompassed by being part of such subtle ripples. Rolling shapes that flatten faster than they are formed. The constant motion of water.
It’s what you never doubted belonging to. Continue reading
at first glance
There’s a girl on the other side of a Hell’s Kitchen courtyard who smokes cigarettes out of her window while I blow puffs of something much thicker.
And while I see her, I know she sees me, and it turns into this hide and seek game of ducking behind curtains while pretending to open and close sliding glass doors.
But it’s evident that we see each other. And while I am unable to hone in on her blinking at me, I still somehow sense the dust off of her eyelashes, and although she can’t see it, she knows I’m blinking back.
In fact, I might have even nodded. Continue reading
I decide to start to collecting lovers again. With a smart phone, in New York City, it’s simple. www.click.person.
The first response comes from Kentucky, but he was actually born in Washington State. “I grew up in Indiana though.” He owns a tattoo studio in Harlem. “And I deal drugs.”
I wonder if he knew that I do days as a chief officer, he would still be so blunt. Not that it makes any difference to me. In my experience, selling them when you’re on them usually turns into an economic catastrophe. And he seems like a walking disaster.
We’re in some trendy vegan cafe in Hell’s Kitchen. A fat girl next to us turns to her companion and says, “That’s why everyone hates J.P. Morgan Chase. They like, caused the financial crisis.”
Before I worked on Wall Street, I had no exposure to economic anything – quite deliberately. I hid in Australia, with you. Reading hands and flipping cards. Continue reading
I found a license on the ground. Her name was Miranda Moore. I thought that sounded so glamorous, like Marilyn Monroe.
I immediately began to weigh myself up next to Miranda, all 5 foot 11 inches of her. She’s probably a model. Brown hair. Hazel eyes.
Miranda lives in the East Village. I assume she does yoga at one of those trendy free places you hear people talk about in the alphabet city cafes where Miranda drinks fruit smoothies.
Miranda would think that I am so square because I work on Wall Street and wear stilettos to board meetings instead of the Bahamas. As if I would ever go there.
I assume she has an aromatherapy blog and wears her long hair in a pony tail with one of those colorful headbands when she works out at Crunch every day. 30 minutes treadmill. 45 floor work.
I bet she reads Eckhart Tolle books while she eats vegan food in China Town. Continue reading
If you told me I would step over a body, in broad daylight, when I was ten.
I likely may have objected.
The sun is barely up when I see him at first. Nose tucked to knees. Wool hat on a warm day. Stepping over him doesn’t bother me, I don’t get that far.
When I see him; I turn the other way. Continue reading