Dear Sun,

Besides cancer

You give me happiness

When there are waves nearby

And sand that will stick to my legs.

I didn’t go to Brighton Beach

Because a girl was murdered there

Two weeks ago.

Rockaway was nice anyway

Full of tattoos

Surfboards

And jelly plankton.

On my journey back on the J

I looked at my toes.

They looked like

Italian breaded meat.

How not to feel joyous

And smile at fellow travelers

While listening to America.

When you’re rich,

Valentina,

You will buy a house on a beach

Trying to make up

For being old

And lonely.

In Chicago I learned

That somebody who hangs out

In underground Paris

Is called a “cataphile.”

There are halls

Tunnels

And catacombs

Down there

Filled with art,

Human skulls

And bones.

People who had birthdays,

Friends

Lovers

And flesh

Once.

The graduate student 

Who keeps an eye on the museum

Is cute and nice

Like everybody else

In the Midwest.

On my plane back to New York

The captain gave his usual speech

And then with an almost broken voice

He added:

“I looooove my job.”

I loved him for a minute

And then went back to talking to myself.

When I lived in South Carolina

I made my own tortillas

Sprouted seeds

Made raw bread with a dehydrator.

Penland changed my diet for worse

And everything else for better.

I gained a few kilos,

Faced the end of love,

Started making good work.

Now instead of having nervous breakdowns

Because I can’t find my keys

Or waking up crying because I’m a failure

And feeling dead all the time

I am definitely alive

If certainly aging.

Look,

I’m 32 today.

Stuck in my twenties.

My thighs are too big

My teeth are fake

My toes quite hairy and horrible.

If I believed in invisible forces

Shaping our lives

I would have to say that New York

Is a hub

Where these energies converge.

At first it’s hard to be there

We aren’t used to that power.

We have to adapt to a higher voltage.

A thousand kilometers away

An old man needs help

With his map.

-Sorry, I’m not from here,

I say,

-I’m from New York.

It isn’t an accurate statement

So I laugh at myself

But existentially it is.

New York and I are a 99% match.

I want to love Chicago.

But where’s the dopamine rush?

I’m pretty sure gluten

Makes me sick

Which in Italy is like saying:

Sorry, I’m allergic to food.

Maybe that’s why I’m happier here.

Or maybe I’m just a disgusting narcissist

And I was tired of being ignored

By men and teachers.

Here I get attention

All the time

Firefighters shout hello

When I pass them by

On my bike

And artists like my work.

I’m so used to my new tribe

That when I’m in New Jersey

Just across the river

The sight of inelegant women

Outside a bar

Suddenly reminds me 

We haven’t taken over the world.

Yet.

His arms were sexy

The darkroom dark

One night we were drunk

After working hard in the studio

He held me and softly told me

She was waiting for him

In Tennessee.

He wouldn’t let her down.

I was dying for a kiss,

I feverishly walked

To my dorm.

Prehistorical facts.

Since then I’ve been kissed by eight people

Embraced non-monogamy

Walked down city streets

Overhearing conversations:

“I’ve danced with David Smirnoff”

“He doesn’t strike me as suave!”

I wash my roommates’ dishes

Get 1.2 compliments a day.

Whatever you’ve done

Or will,

You are forgiven.

Go in peace.

I have my period again

But I won’t complain:

I’m not carrying around 

A bean sized human being.

Hallelujah.

I’m surrounded

By English accents

From three continents,

A playwright 

Who studied at Cambridge and Columbia

Who never fails

To offer coffee,

Dying plants that need love,

Theater props,

Hats and mandolins.

The mat next to my desk

Is warning me:

Any activity

Involving motion

Height 

Speed

Rotations

And/or physical contact

Creates the possibility of serious injury

Including paralysis

And even death.

I will keep that in mind

And for today I will limit myself

To leaps of the imagination.

I thought Rome was hot in June

I didn’t know anything

I keep making mistakes.

I go downstairs where it’s cooler

And I’m still dripping sweat

All I want to do is hug an iceberg.

Who cares about art.

At four in the morning I left my loft bed

And lay on the floor

Thinking about how sad it is

That he’s in love with her.

It feels wrong somehow.

I don’t care that they’re having kinky sex

But the poems he writes about her

Are good.

I was his poetic gym

I deserve a percentage

At the very least.

DANGER

3rd RAIL ALIVE.

At times it is impossible

To feel anything.

If I threw myself on the tracks

My skin would fry

My heart would stop

And maybe my thoughts

Would disappear

Like my still born thesis on Shakespeare

That died with my old ibook.

Or maybe instead

My consciousness

Would merge with the subway’s,

With its anxiety, desire and darkness.

A kind doctor would revive me,

I would walk away

With all that knowledge.

Instead I go to SoHo

And buy myself a raspberry cheesecake

From a girl all covered in pink

Because it’s either all

Or nothing.

Where else but here

Would a tour guide

Hold up his lightsaber

To be better seen

Among

Trees

Fountains

And Sol LeWitt sculptures?

I am leisurely walking

To a job interview of sorts

Without knowing that I’m going East

Instead of West,

As usual.

I sit on a bench to study a map.

My neighbor is studying a screenplay.

Two Amish women

With their bearded partners

Are studying the lightsaber.

That big splashy fountain

Reminds me of Rome

I wonder if boring people

Throw coins in there

Like back home.

I glance over the edge.

The answer is yes.
Pennies.

One of the few valuable lessons

I still remember

             from an 

Angry

Self-absorbed

Method acting

Guru

who claimed to be a Zen Master,

Is that being comfortable is bad.

At the time I didn’t understand.

I was suffering so much

I didn’t need any more pain.

But now I know

It isn’t about pain

It’s about accepting some discomfort

Like the sharp cold water

When you’re entering the sea.

It will keep us awake through life.

I am new to Brooklyn,

Once again I’m born again

I haven’t seen mosquitoes yet

But I can hear their telepathic war cries.

Today I took a sewing class.

It took me ages to re-learn

How that bloody machine works.

My eyelids drop,

Like in front of an equation.

But I could become a seamstress

If my life depended on it.

And somehow I wish it did.

Later I explored

The Bushwick Open Studios,

Studying the makers

Rather than their work.

People are animated!

Unlike machines

And most art.

They all asked me about mine.

Do I look so obvious?

Or is it just assumed

That only artists

Would care enough to go?

Then how,

Pray tell,

Will we pay our bills?

Should I watch
The Odd Couple tonight

Or figure out whether

I should move to Chicago

And get in debt

For the rest of my life?

People want to talk to me online.

They project their fantasies on me.
Who knows what they believe they see.

A pair of beautiful eyes,

A tormented soul,

Someone who will tuck their sheets in.

I am too old to play this game,

I can’t like anyone really,

Only a little bit.

Drops from a dripping faucet.

The tea you squeeze out of an old teabag.

Leaving is easy.

Time to master your curtsey.

It’s never enough.

The complete disclosure,

The whole pornographic deal.

Tell me if you get it or not.

Will you embrace it 

Or reject it?

Call the police,

Take me to Court,

Scream,

Stab me,

Wield your Weapon.

It’s easy to space out.

This is not my Land.

I will always have that excuse.

But what about you?

Will you be braver?

Own your cowardice?

Admit you don’t know a thing?

Why is the G train shorter than the F?

I’ll lie on the side of the road.

Even when all is fulfilled desire

There remains a life to live.