I know,

I said it was over

And yet here I am.

I do that with men sometimes.

The painful dragging on of something doomed.

New York isn’t done with me,

That’s all.

I wanted to see it from above.

On the deck my rolleicord

Seduced the security guard.

-Never seen anything like that.

Can you get FLIM for that? 

Didn’t know you could!

Meanwhile a man

Jumps over the glass.

The guard starts to run

And yell.

The man just sits there.

His feet hanging

seventy floors in the air,

A spiderman backpack,

An American flag on his face.

This is the end

My only friend, the end.


Maybe. After all I'm leaving New York on Saturday. New city, new life, new blog?
We'll see. I might turn 100 words into a book. With illustrations and such. Thanks for reading.

I claim a car

Before the train stops.

I get attached to a particular seat

The one beside the woman

With orange sandals

Reading a crumpled New Yorker.

The policeman on the Myrtle Avenue platform

Walks towards me smiling.

-Nice camera,

Almost as old

As that building you’re photographing.

I smile back.

I can smell the Fall

Today.

I’ve been sleeping better

At night.

It’s a graceful dance

For a Woman

A Fan

And a Top Sheet.

Regardless of the menstrual cramps

(quite puzzling on a third day)

And the headaches

And the mild grief

This life

Qualifies

As fine.

I just used the last drop

Of my ecological laundry detergent.

I bought it in January

When I moved to New York.

My head wants to explode

Today.

I might let it.

You always leave after lunch

On those rare Mondays I get to see you

When you drive here for her.

You want to avoid rush hour,

All those people with real jobs.

You also don’t want 

To start missing

The old life.

I know this

Because I miss it too.

You gave me quarters,

I was out of American coins.

It’s brutal what we do

Without meaning to.

My favorite roommate left

For good

A moment ago.

Since I came back from Italy

I feel oh so sentimental.

At the Met

People think

They’re supposed to look at art

But all they’re thinking about

Is the Petrie Court Café.

I could use a cup of tea

Myself.

And a man.

Someone who’ll sip oolong

And look at me with love

While he firmly holds my hand.

It’s normal to feel lonely

Here.

Thank goddess

I got over Him.

Now I promise I’ll behave

No silly crushes

Or shallow breathing.

Up at seven

Drink more water

Apply for Medicaid.

I will love everyone

If just for a second.

On the crowded bus in Rome

I observe my compatriots.

A woman with a big yellow skirt

Is holding a giant panino like a fan.

A guy hops in

He’s carrying a fat leather bag

Wearing headphones

And a pearl necklace.

I decide to stare at him.

Remind me, why do I hate this city?

So much beauty everywhere

And nights are infinitely nicer,

I sleep like a baby,

The song of cicadas

In my ears.

Vacanze Romane are one thing

Growing up here another

But that might just suck

Anywhere.

In my mother’s car

In Sicily

We listened to mixed tapes

I made in 1992.

Back then

I still counted

Each time I took a plane,

Every single one a step

Towards adventure and adulthood.

I recently stopped counting

Something else.

After New York I don’t even know

What counts as sex

And some of those 

I prefer to forget,

The landing was rough.

My last Italian lover

Had been six years ago

So yesterday

In bed

My mouth spoke English.

My first non-Italian lover

Was Dutch

He expected me to say

Exactly

What I wanted him to do.

I miss home.

Home is not Rome.

Home is Chicago.

I was there just for three days

In June.

I didn’t even like it.

If felt small and unexciting.

But decisions are everything

And I made mine.

Who is this person I am becoming?

I usually can’t even decide what to eat.

That’s why I like restaurants

That will just bring you food,

Not menus.

As long as it’s all vegan.

Matthew used to say

That I’m afraid of missing out.

Like Britney Spears in that Youtube video.

She’s stoned and sad,

At her philosophical peak,

Munching on French fries.

I am getting tan

My eyes look more intense

When my skin is dark.

Mediterranean nights

Remind me of sex.

Sounds.
Smells.

This is my loneliest summer

Since high school.

Love seems unreal like back then,

Romanticized hormonal urges.

My maternal grandfather

Before marrying his wife

Fell in love with someone

From Rome.

She dumped him

He bought himself

A banjo,

Got over her,

Resigned himself

To a life without Eros.

Will he regret it

For the rest of his life?

I get obsessed with people

Out of boredom

And impatience.

I almost called someone tonight.

Good thing I didn’t.

Italy reminds me of painful things.

Previous selves,

A younger,

Elfish,

More beautiful me.

I told my father

How his grandmother died

He truly didn’t know

That sad dirty secret.

I drank, ate and biked

With my best friend

Who isn’t just a friend,

(We both know that

And it’s fine,

But we really should have sex

Some time,

Since his girlfriend wouldn’t mind).

Now I am in Sicily

Visiting my grandparents

Feeling angry

And guilty

Because they make each other miserable

And I just want to leave.

I wish I knew happy old people.

I would dread birthdays less.

My cat didn’t notice

I abandoned her,

But my apartment did.

It doesn’t smell like me anymore.

Television sets

Have invaded the space

They won’t let the stereo breathe.

My reading lamp 

Is lying on its side,

Crippled.

Lost are the keys

To my bicycle’s lock,

And all good pots are gone

From my kitchen.

It isn’t home

If you can’t cook dinner.

I feel anxiety mounting

So I have a glass of the Cointreau

We took from my dead Grandfather’s place.

Mine looks soulless like his did

When my father and I sat brooding in it,

After his burial.

You disappeared without a word.

It’s all for the best

Since I’m leaving New York anyway

But don’t I deserve words?

Look,

I’m writing them for strangers right now

Hasn’t someone you held all night

Twice

Earned the right 

To not be treated like a thing?

I will treat every step

As a step towards enlightenment

Or at least towards you,

Unknown Chicagoan

I will fall in love with.

What are you doing

As I’m packing my bag?

Are you petting your cat?

Writing a song about koalas?

Koalas are the sweetest animals

On earth

And they smell like eucalyptus.

To conquer my ennui

I tried to see The Future

At the MoMA.

It was sold out.

Miranda July was there

I could have asked her

If she wanted to be my friend.

I need a friend today.

I can tell it’s bad

When I won’t stop eating.

I just had three desserts:

Mango with sticky rice

Carrot cake cupcake

Raspberry white chocolate cheesecake.

Now I’m on the J

And I feel nauseous,

Which is better than sad.

I will see my cat soon

She will be happy to see me

She won’t know I’ve been away

For fifteen months.

Yesterday when I woke up

I thought I was going to see

A friend.

After checking my e-mail

I also thought I had found

An apartment in Chicago

And a blue VW van to buy.

Plus,

Breakfast was delicious.

As the day progressed

Things didn’t look as bright.

Everything fell through

Though I guess

I still have taste buds

On my tongue,

And I did make a ton

Of quinoa salad

For today.

I will need energy

Since I’m starting from scratch

Again.

It sort of stopped being funny

Long ago.

My frontal lobes

I assure you

Are intact.

I’m sitting at a booth

In a laundromat

On Broadway.

Today there is a heat wave

In New York. 

An air-conditioned space

Crowded with fat ladies

Is a good place to be.

It makes thinking easier:

I know

That you won’t call

And not because you’re busy.

We both knew

My speech about Germanic men

Applied to you as well,

My eagle-eyed friend,

But we pretended otherwise.

I am so used to this

That it feels acceptable,

Like an old scar that hurts

A little

When it’s damp.

I must have thought

It would be different.

But how.

Yesterday I drank absinthe

At the Lone Wolf bar.

There were artists everywhere,

And not enough air.

I walked to the bar next door

Where a bassist and a drummer

Wearing threatening masks

Were fighting some kind of war,

Sweat shining on their bare chests.

I sat at the bar,

Mildly entertained.

A man asked me if I was Betty.

(Another victim of online dating?)

He proceeded to buy me a drink

And talk my ear off

While I stared at my phone.

It always takes you ten hours

To write back.

Another girl would give up,

But not Miss Vella.

Sundays feel hopeful.

It is something I learned

When I was a kid.

Sundays have lost their meaning,

Since I haven’t been in school for ages

And I haven’t had a normal job

Since when I tried

And failed

To be a real person.

I am a collection

Of disjointed feelings

Glued together

By occasional concepts

Like 

Art.

Love.

Grief.

I really spend my days

Breathing in and out

Wondering who ate my avocados

Or sitting in front of my computer

Like right now,

My lungs compressed

Because of shame,

Sadness,

Longing

And unrealistic

Hopes

Of redemption,
A witless coyote.

If Bill Callahan showed up at my door

Right now

I would marry him.

Seeing him play 

Will be nice too.

After all who needs a husband.

I do have an extra ticket though,

Please apply within.

Especially if you love

Quinoa salad

White sand

Robert Wyatt singing Moon in June

You named your horse Ariel

You want to camp in the Sahara desert 

Build a straw bale house in the woods

But live in Brooklyn

If you can play the dulcimer

Or the lute.

Let’s tango on an Icelandic glacier

Use kenningar instead of boring words

From now on.

I know that I seem ridiculous,

Jumping to conclusions.

I might exaggerate

But I know

I’m right.

I can’t contain myself,

I went overboard,

So now I’m left with nothing,

Again.

I remember talking on the phone

In the North Carolina woods

To someone who loved me

More than I could ever love him.

“If you leave me

you’ll let predators in.

They’ll bite.

You’ll suffer.

Nobody can love you like I do.”

I knew he was right

I still had to jump,

Say farewell to comfort,

Welcome anxiety,

Accept I would be the more loving one,

From then on.