On the advent of spring
In Times Square, an M&M was playing tag with a small child. I shit you not. “Tag! You’re it!” said the child and took off running down Broadway with a big foamy yellow M&M chasing after him.
...read more herePosts Tagged ‘harlem’
On cardboard boxes
There has to be some corner of the city, some cardboard box or other into which I can crawl and hide when I’m done with the world. I already know that it’s up to me to create this box. I just wish I knew where to find some fucking cardboard…
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On the directionlessness
It’s Saturday now and I have not been home yet. I’ve been back and forth between midtown and Harlem wondering in what direction I should be headed, sometimes walking, sometimes on a train (wasting money I don’t have to spare). No, seriously, I think I’m physically sick…
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On a mistress
I wish no ill on the poor sweet girl. I don’t even really wish them to break up per se, but I wish she’d know her place and step off my husband’s reincarnation. I am not the mistress; she is. I’ll swear to the jury that he was mine first. I’ll stick to my story…
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On a bad morning
I managed to crawl out of bed with enough strength to call my therapist, and strangely after our brief conversation which consisted of nothing but a confirmation that our session was indeed canceled today because she had a nasty cold, I felt better.
...read more hereOn visiting demons
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like a ghost moving through live bodies, weaving in and out of the workings of a world to which I absolutely do not belong. I want to see him put his arms around her. I want them to act as though I do not exist. But then, if I do not exist, why am I here?
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On the OD — pt 2 (the third)
I stretched myself out with my feet by the headboard feeling like my body was leaden and my head was helium-filled. I wondered if this was the other side of suicide. I wondered if I was already dead. I did not think about bleeding. I knew somehow that if I thought about it, it would happen..
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On the difference between my sister and my cousin
I told my mother and cousin earlier today that my friend in Harlem had said this. My mother’s reaction was that he had no right to make comments about her children. My mother doesn’t like my friend in Harlem. Granted, I don’t like him all the time either, but my mother doesn’t know one tenth of what has gone on between us over the last couple of years. All she knows is that he’s older than I am, and to her, that’s a good enough reason for both she and my sister not to like him.
...read more hereOn evictions
The room was tiny and smelled like smoke and the blinds did not go down all the way to the bottom edge of the window. We settled on that spot after walking around to what seemed like (but certainly wasn’t) every hotel in Manhattan and hearing “Sorry, no vacancy.” By the time we got to St. Marks’ Hotel, my friend was limping, I was wired and it was 9am.
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On idyllic autumn nights in Harlem
He walked in with his trumpet in his hand and set his fedora down on my table when he saw me. I immediately picked it up and started twirling it in my hands.
I can’t remember the boy’s name, actually. When I see him, I call him Trumpet.
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