When I first got here

I felt the way I feel

when I meet a dark and sexy boy

and KNOW that he will never love me back 

because I can’t play poker 

or do a train robbery with him.

But then one day you’re sipping soup 

in a vegan café in Williamsburg

and you burn your tongue.

You suddenly realize that the City

has been wearing slippers

and a pink robe

all along.

Meanwhile your trail dress

has been picking all the dirt

and you really should have left

your tiara home.

Rejoice.

You’re the lonely Queen

of Nothingness.

And then one day you’re on the train

reading the journals written by a girl like you

exactly sixty years ago.

She’s dead now. 

She has been dead for almost fifty years.

“Somehow, you could never

face yourself, quite.”

It’s on a day like this 

that the hustle and bustle

seems depressingly pointless.

You meet a random New Yorker 

whose nervous energy

and unpleasant manners

make you want to eat

three brownies in a row.

So you go home to paint a still life

or, let’s face it,

to waste time on the internet

since nothing matters

and never will.

Today I met Ann Hamilton.

She’s playful and sweet.

She thanked me

for working on her 

sculptures

and wished me luck

with Life and Art.

Nevertheless

I felt like crying all day.

As I was cleaning buckets

the projector in my brain

was showing landscapes 

I had traveled through with Matthew.

On the train ride home

I kept thinking 

about the woman I met yesterday

at the 14th street stop.

She urged me to buy stocks 

of a company that sells LCD screens.

“This is real.

I’m only telling women.

You are going to be a millionaire.

We all are.”

I just ate something

with chicken fat in it.

Wait, it gets worse.

It was a dog biscuit.

As I’m making my vegan oatmeal

I see these cracker-like things on the stove

and I don’t know better than trying a piece.

It tasted weird.

Later on

I saw my roommate

feeding them

to her happy dog.

Oh well,

forgive me, dear bird.

You were organic, I am told,

which means that maybe you saw the sun 

a couple of times

before they cut your throat.

I feel like I’ve been poisoned,

but like most things

it’s just my fault.

Sorry for cutting you off like that.

You asked me

if you’d just seen me

at the opening.

Well, you hadn’t.

Which turned your question

into a lame pick-up line.

But as a matter of fact

in an alternate universe

we have indeed just met at the opening.

In that universe

it would have been nice 

to see your smile again

and I wouldn’t have shown you

my famous evil face.

Now I’m looking at you over my shoulder

wondering if you’ll say something else.

But you won’t. 

You’ll board the F

and I will never see you again.

When a New Yorker

calls you

u dumb BITCH

it means you made it

you’ve been adopted by the city.

It’s one of those rites of passage.

Then again, I think she’s from Jersey City.

Does that count?

I hope so!

I need to feel accepted,

I’m working on my accent

since I already blend in nicely

with my fancy glasses, striped shirts, skinny jeans.

It turns out she’s not going to kill me though.

No shooting scenes under the rain.

She was just drunk 

and young

and mad at me for enjoying the kisses

of her favorite polyamorous dragon.

To get good at something

you need to be willing

to suck

at first.

That’s what self-help books 

for troubled artists

will tell you

(now you don’t need to buy them!

You’re welcome).

But I am fine with being a beginner.

I have perfected the art 

of not having a clue

making ugly sounds

falling off a horse.

I don’t expect anything at first,

I just enjoy the newness.

But to keep going

every day

you need a dedication

an unwavering strength

that I simply don’t possess.

I am an accomplished thwarter.

I begin and end in one stroke.

It is hard for me to understand

how somebody could say

“There isn’t an animal I wouldn’t eat

I would eat a cat,

I would eat a dog.”

There is aggression in her eyes as she says this

you can picture her opening a tiny skull

and sticking her tongue in it.

I understand people who keep eating meat

because it’s what they’ve always done

and it tastes good.

But to consciously relish this whole murderous business

you must have the lack of empathy

of a psychopath.

You scare me.

You think I feel superior.

I just tremble with love.

200 words because I feel generous today

I’m reading a book about love

my Swiss-Canadian friend

recommended it to me.

I blindly trust her taste 

in books

men

food

art.

She also has the best tattoos,

I almost wish I was into girls.

In the book there is a bit

about family secrets.

When my grandmother was dying,

which was a secret in itself

(since my father didn’t tell her

she had lung cancer),

she told me that

one day

her 26-year-old mother

packed her suitcase

and told her

“Lola,

if I die

tell them to lay me

on the big oak table

in the dining hall.”

My great-grandfather

(that I imagine wearing a top hat

like in those pictures of him 

at the races) was positive

four daughters were enough

so he sent her away

to get her uterus 

pierced by a butcher

and bleed to death.

My grandmother

grew up

in boarding schools.

She turned into 

a hard, hurtful woman

who understood love as reward

not as unconditional acceptance.

Her only son

would be

the Genius

the perfect child

with a double life,

the kind of person

you don’t want as a father,

and chances are

I am exactly like him.

I lost my favorite pen.

That’s what happens

when you come home from Brooklyn

stoned.

Worse things could have happened.

People sitting across from me

on the train

were plotting to kill me.

Trains started running in loops

instead of going North.

The bass riff in my head

was good,

I wish I could remember it.

My bass guitar lives in Philly,

anyway.

I felt sorry for myself

during the whole twenty years

it took to get to Harlem.

The lack of love

and intimacy

during my teenage years.

The utter lack of talent

in the present

future

and eternity.

I disappear 

but I do

love you, 

reader.

I’ve been doing stuff,

learning things.

I’ve been teaching Italian.

to real students and all.

I learned how to cut through metal.

Because why not.

I found out that my lover is polyamorous.

His loss.

Plus, after the initial shock

I will get used to anything 

except cockroaches.

Tomorrow I’m making felt

and a dozen other things.

New York is bipolar 

and so am I.

Beautiful and ugly,

wise and childish, 

enlightened and corrupt,

passionate and bored.

I think I love you

stupid city,

you’re teaching me 

that I can love myself.

As you know here days flow like years

All the treasure 

has been conquered by cruel vandals.

I walk to the river every morning at dawn

And watch the fish flying in the air.

Worse masters could come any time,

I consider myself lucky

In these times of misfortune. 

These are the only activities I allow myself. 

Except for burning fragrant sticks of incense 

And letting red flags fly from my hands.

I would very much enjoy the coming of the knight, 

But I can find other ways to entertain myself.

Confiding in your ability to do the same,

Goodnight.

my world has been turned upside down

or not really

not really.

it’s just that 

surprise surprise!

concepts

and

life 

they are not the same,

and I don’t know 

where this pain is coming from

from the fire stove itself

or from the idea of damage
of losing my beautiful

precious fingers.

my fingers are precious.

so are yours!

when you know that somebody

is going to slap you in the face

soon

but you don’t know exactly when

waiting for that blow is real torture.

please strap me to this chair now

and let’s get it over with.

thanks.

200 words today

I am of the breed

that walks against the wind.

A warm wind though

a Spring night

on Houston street

towards the D.

I’m going home,

I need to sleep alone.

Earlier, half naked,

we’re chatting on the couch.

Apparently,

you trust me enough

to take me to your bed,

but not to get high together.

“That’s weird”

I say

“I am VERY trustworthy.

Can’t you tell?

My darkness is inside

it’s mostly sadness

I would never hurt anyone.”

I love even mosquitoes

as long as they’ll let me sleep.

But you are not good

are you?

To be fair you gave me hints

when I said you were bello e buono

you did say you were bello e malo.

“Cattivo, you mean,

that’s how we say bad.”

After gaining my trust

by pretending not to trust me

you mention casually

while talking about traveling

and hostels versus hotels

that on that trip to Colorado

you’re going with a girl.

I pretend I haven’t heard.

I go on smiling

when you’re looking at me

but when you aren’t

I have a pathologist’s eye.

I wish I hadn’t left my glasses there

since I don’t think I will see you again.