Every third Sunday from June to October, the Prospect Park Alliance and the NYC Food Truck Association sponsor a Food Truck Rally in Grand Army Plaza. I finally checked it out today, sampling the best trucks before the event’s end next month. (The Atlantic Antic is in October and one can only handle so much street food. Just kidding. Street food is the best.) The trucks encircle the entrance to the park from 11 AM to 5 PM, but things didn’t really pick up until close to 1 PM. Pictures of the food after the jump. Continue reading
As seen on Classon Ave. on my way to the West Indian parade:
Lost light fixture,
hanging smoke alarms ringing—
I can’t wake you.
The last night:
sharing my twin bed,
your furnace/your face.
When you love me, you rest your head on mine
and leave it there,
forgetting that it’s heavy.
It hurts to feel you, but you call me
girl over and over
and it makes us swell together,
melting lashes, singeing sheets.
You never know the last time is the last time.
I bought wine-colored curtains to keep
the sun out, the dark in—
the bed, it was getting so hot.
I don’t know what to do with all this love.
Such a huge locomotive, the grief train,
panting, ugly, shiny, and black,
but it has many cars to pull
and a very long distance to travel.
Miraculously, it needs no fuel,
having the one event, or many,
to keep it going for eternity
—or however long you imagine.
Sometimes you see it at crossings.
You’re headed somewhere else.
Perhaps you’ve been laughing a lot,
or just come from seeing a movie.
The great thing about it, of course,
is its steadiness and drive. You forget it,
and still it is going to be out there,
snaking through mountain passes,
rushing all night next to white-flecked rivers,
hooting its soundless whistle,
and sending on up toward the stars
its smoke, which is pungent and cold.
I remember visiting multiple stores with my mom and grandma as they searched for the perfect reading chair. This was to be my mom’s alone, an investment, something that helped her unwind after a long day of everything that came along with being a single mom with two kids and three pets. At night, she’d sit in the chair in the living room, the room with no TV, and read a book while I played computer solitaire, listening to Green Day on my walkman. As was routine, she’d fall asleep that way, the chair a comfortable lullaby. Catching my mom dozing in her chair is one of my favorite memories of her. Continue reading
As a spin-off of my previous series An Actual Email I Sent (“series” may be a little strong since I only did it once), here’s an actual email I was sent (please ignore use of passive voice) by my childhood best friend’s mother, who has taken to sending me the occasional state job posting (in hopes of bringing me over to the dark side of applauded inefficiency and “really great benefits”): Continue reading
The south in summer—
feet bare trail hopping
in a cotton-candy-colored skirt, flowing neatly below the knees.
The sun is his periphery and it dips into the water,
shine stretching the length, dyeing the top of his nose:
the kind of scene that makes you regret Godlessness.
I touch it for a moment—
touch the faith, feeling it—
and step onto the tracks.
He’d save you. He’ll save you.
How fast does it go?
About 75 miles per hour, a good clip.
It’s a lovely lemon sunset.
Yes, I’ve been watching from the window.
In the night, the pond water
mixes with his salt-sticky sweat, and never seems to dry—
the humid air lingers, making batter of our limbs.
The bulb light shines down, his face and torso mine,
but his arms are only smoke stacks in the dark.
What I can see, I claim; what I claim, I love—
I try to take everything back.
I climb a ladder in the dark
and cover the buzzing fixture with my fingers,
leaving stripes of black on his body.
Later: the sheets are wrinkled and I fall into the creases.
You like dive bars, and so do I.
Walking away, my heels lick the road.
No one knows this city like we know this city.
From behind, you bent—
kissed the hook of my back.
Like a tree, carving your name on me.
All around me is stale water.
I look at my hands, think:
these will decay some day.
These will decay and
the things touched—
Your lids close when I look back and
I adhere my hands to the wall and wait.
Down in the cellar,
she smoked hidden cigarettes—
the atmosphere of what she wants.
I stand with the face of a dead woman, my palms up on the counter.
Sometimes you find out things on trains, I think.
Sometimes it’s very inconvenient.
I finally sat down and connected the lines I was gathering for a found poem based on Craigslist’s m4w Missed Connections section. I mostly wanted to write it for the first line—the first line is just awesome (and, absurdly, I wish it had been posted for me). Also, the OkCupid email on the bottom of this post has nothing to do with this, but I just found it hilarious when it arrived in my inbox the morning of my birthday and feel the need to share my apparent spinsterhood with the world. The internet is so weird. Continue reading