The District of Meatpacking and Lonely Street

I'm walking to the subway, slightly intoxicated from a martini and a shot of patron. I feel slightly guilty because I left my friend Lauren's birthday party early - and she was more present at my birthday than I was. But I did make the long journey to the "meatpacking district."

It's uncanny how the name still bears truth to its surroundings. A district that used to pack slaughtered meat now promotes one packing their "meat" into the slaughtered prey. Male or female is not so important. It's still a meat market of sorts - one that used to house ground beef to grade A sirloin now selects its 'subjects' based upon lack of fat. Thus, the filet, the sauciest of beef brands would seemingly dissipate as a result, but the skinny prefer the fat and the fat are not welcome - unless provided in marbled eight inch circumferences at a medium rare temperature, to be pick at for status' sake.

I am finding that my fuscia tights get looks, they receive stares; those coupled with my untamed mane of curls. The anti-christ of the faux haute. And I chuckle at the glares and stares because the seriousness attributed to the disgust of my stockings is so trivial, and in reality it is legitimately comical. Poor, poor filets.

I have found that late evening semi-drunk strolls through the city lend one to truly identify with how lonely they are. Trapped between concrete and glass walls that stretch over one hundred feet high - it's easy to feel small. And in those late hours when the psyche is not interrupted by the bustle of foot-traffic, the cranial circuits find time to silence and buzz and connect, and in those moments I think; I really think. Not about the fuscia glares (that is peripheral) but about shana and morgan and my sister and the stature of the architecture around me. I take the time to "peruse" and look through that list of names that I typically find so empty. I have time to think, which affords me reason to act, and I make that call that I should have made months ago.

Bukowski Bedtime Story

Bukowski Bedtime Story
Those who are crazy are brilliant
I tell myself this
Bukowski said this
Bukowski knows
I have never read bukowski
Those quotes let me know
That he is someone to admire
I do this all the time
Find a muse
A muse that is dead
Or a muse that has passed
My musings are temporary
They rarely evolve
Into more than a mere preoccupation
To take me away from me
Curiosity
That’s what I call it
I would claim it to be inspiration
Those words have yet to touch my brain
So I cannot draw from anything more than an idea
But that idea is a fantasy
And I like fantasies
They serve me well
whoever I want to be
I can be in my mind
This I fantasize
Synthetic sun
Crimson liquidity
In this
My calm exists
It takes away my fear
It lulls my mind
it helps to put me to sleep without thought
so the realization of an empty bed
and an empty heart
don’t keep me awake at night
i force myself to wait
until my eyeballs are sore
and my head aches for rest
it’s not time yet
I may think a thought
i may feel a feeling
this is dangerous territory
I wish I had love
Real love to touch
I forget how to ask for love
So I just don’t ask
Its been two years
since I felt loved
and that love was a farce
its been twelve years
since love consumed me
like I now wish it would
st. marks street
is supposed to supplement this void
with the noise noise noise
but tonight it is quiet
I don’t like the quiet
When there is quiet
I can hear those thoughts
Those thoughts I want to quell

Sister

24 hours make the day
polar coasts part our time
three hours makes the wall
your words don’t make it to me
i am not a poor catcher
when a ball does not exist
love cannot be thrown
when you open you hand
and heart to speak
time will no longer exist
in this tangled mess of kin