Classic NYC Story

The ceiling fan spins my thoughts that muddy stagnant lake is there motion at the bottom? my pen in hand silent pen the ceiling fan spins while I sit empty wondering if I’ve finally run out of poetry…

This poem
is not about you.
I don’t know you…

You make me lowercase.
You make me small.
Somewhere in the dark glow of Your brightness
i think i lost my upper case.

Though I was geographically ahead of him, we both reached for the door at the same time, and I realized he wanted to open it for me. I retracted my hand and allowed him to do this. He opened every door for me all the way to the store, and then all the way back to the stage.

Today is a poetry day, isn’t it? As it so happens, I have a poem available, which I will not post because it includes the name of the person I sent it to. Of course, I could just take out the name or censor it, but that would be too clever for me. The true [...]

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.

There’s no title. I sent it to him in an email on the day I wrote it with a caption that said simply “To [his name].” I don’t know what I should call it… let’s discuss.

Based on a conversation with (or diatribe from) my mother about half an hour ago. She told me I was a “tick under her skin that she couldn’t get out.” I told her I was not that difficult to get rid of.

…You have broken me down completely
into pieces that are lighter…

…I got up and paced around that little room singing over and over again “It’s a happy day and I thank God for the weather…” and then I changed the tune. And then I changed the lyrics. And then I changed them back. And I kept singing. I sang until I got tired, but I couldn’t stop, because I knew instinctively that I was keeping the demons away by singing. So I sang. And I paced. And I sang…