uniquely american

the day before thanksgiving, and i've already told the story twice to anyone who'll listen. remember last year... remember working ten hours at two jobs, remember perpetual grey skies without even the beginning of the promise of snow, remember staring at the spot of drying vomit on the Tube and smelling turkey over the phone lines, remember choking down dry, pre-packaged falafel after everyone else was asleep?

remember how much you missed the thought of hours in a kitchen big enough to use, and the simple pleasure of flour in your hair? remember how even the family friends who always forgot your name would have been comforting, would have been something, at least, to be thankful for. remember how the day passed unremarked.

looking back, i think i've forgiven myself for feeling directionless, for seeming spiteful or angry. this year, there'll be a house full of loud and fabulous people, an assault of smells, and lights, and garish decorations. this year pumpkin pie will rub out the taste of couscous, and people who care will gently touch my scars and ask me to explain. and i'll tell them twice, about feeling lonely and empty and lost without them and about all the people to whom i owe thanks for making last year bearable.

the day before thanksgiving, and this morning coworker S. said, "you're starting to look thinner," and suddenly it doesn't matter so much that it's raining.

i write my song to that city heartbeat

i miss the exhilaration of living in the city. the comforting chatter of thousands of voices, clatter of countless cups on countless saucers, ting tap ting of metal, cooling. in the suburbs these sounds come muted, packaged in road maps and receipts from the commuter train. our trains have no whistles, and the steady clack clack that used to hum in our blood is now an electric buzz that possibly (definitely) causes cancer in lab rats. an illusion of safety.

i want the city to bleed on me, color and light and that peculiar brand of vibrant, gritty reality in grey stone and red brick, wrought iron bars. i want to soak up other people's spilled coffee and half-smoked cigarettes, make myself a receptacle for their losses, their sweaty fucks and slow, nervous disagreements. i want to always be moving.

i'm too young, yet, to be this still.

blazing a trail

sometimes i start to feel nostalgic for all the thoughts i had that i never wrote down.
i wonder what they're doing out there without me
who else they might have found to attach themselves to.
it seems to me that if life were fair
one day i'd get to meet these people
and we might call each other 'kindred spirits'
and share life over cups of coffee -
black, because we like to think ourselves severe.


i imagine that some day all of my snippets will equal poetry and my snapshots, photographs. i guess i imagine that one day all gypsies will have a place to go. but for now, i'll just keep setting off tiny fireworks, and hope they put out enough light for me to see my feet. still moving. still moving on.