So everyone is pretty up in arms over the box-office success of Beverly Hills Chihuahua. How did a movie like this possibly make it to number one, besides the fact that there aren’t any other no-thinking-required movies out during this economic panic and people really don’t like to think during times of crisis? Besides the other fact that kids like to see stupid movies, and while adults might be cutting back on spending, they might still be willing to splurge on a movie for the kids because it’s easier to take them to a movie then have to explain the impending apocalypse? Yes, besides those things, how did this movie dupe so many people into seeing it? Continue reading
You can’t go home again and all that stuff. An essay about getting rid of the childhood possessions that weighed me down. Continue reading
Traveling into Manhattan every day for work means that I usually just stick around to go out. Or, a more recent dilemma, I don’t go out on weekends at all, mostly because I don’t feel like making the commute and paying the money for a cab later. It’s funny how in two years, though, our neighborhood has started to expand. Little restaurants and cafes are popping up all over the place. I’m feeling a little more comfortable with the idea of going out because we’re becoming our own little community. Continue reading
Within days of my mom dying, Mike and I were moved into the already-cramped three bedroom house which was currently holding four people. Mike occupied the basement while I lived in the sun room (with enough room for a twin bed, small TV, and bed stand)—the former computer room which was a go-between space connecting the dining room to the closed-in porch. Continue reading
When we walk at night with the ghosts of New York,
we float above grates and glass;
we have hit our heads on concrete before—
we have jumped from buildings, sank.
We spent a year wrapped in blankets,
emerged drunk, slightly shrunken;
we had films for expression, books for quotations,
but no banners for our own procession.
Map-inches away, we settle into our lives—
separate, less comic, too lost, less known.
The tea smells better in Omaha—
the mundane, better in New York.
Thin like a flower’s shadow,
aproned and sipping stolen cups of red,
you cook and create
create mold and shape
the glimmer in your hands.
And I watch, overcome.
I took the W on my way downtown to Battery Park and a homeless man was cleaning himself methodically in the seats diagonal to mine. Take off shoe, take off sock, wipe, clean. Somewhere around City Hall, he took out an air freshener and sprayed the air above, around, and underneath him, and I thought, “How lovely, how considerate.” The smell of fake-summer (gardenia, freesia, aerosol) made its way to my seat and I wished that I could know his life. That I could know and change his life.
Your back turned, a broken compass
stays shadowed despite
The ghosts living between
our clothes, the dinner talks
of porch lights.
The apple-picking of
and allotted time for
I keep my front to your back,
my knees closed, jointly pointing.
The rain stays south,
but not forever. Find
west-bound with your compass.
Walk there gently,
new figure in the window.
I will never hurt again.
Sitting in a tub, behind the curtain,
with fingers lightly thumping porcelain:
after thirty-three hours of praying,
she came down from the ceiling.
It’s the big blue chair that my mother loved,
with upholstery maintained and bottom scuffs,
that followed me to Brooklyn.
Massive, it didn’t come apart in the middle
like lounges made after 1995.
Instead, sat cumbersome
inside the red van packed with stuff
on the trip from Boston.
I wish my mother could have had a death bed,
one where she lay day to night,
looking the part with historical novels,
yellowing the bright white doilies of the bed table.
With a diagnosis, we could have exercised hope.
I take the Q over the Manhattan Bridge
to see the Statue of Liberty walking with me.
And I’m just trying to make you proud.
I can’t see the ground around me just
umbrellas overlapping in the rain
everywhere as people stand.
(I don’t own one—
with which to overlap or to be overlapped.
The wet always comes in anyway.
Not with two?
But, surely, the wind…)
The rain falls in sheets
like summer lined-laundry
and I can only think of ruined
picnics; Cental Park certainly deserted—
sinking ground, soaked benches.
The rain makes me mean but only
to hide the dreary
and for a moment, I’m pleased (cold).
When I dreamed of screaming,
your eyes were a dizzy kaleidoscope.
On my bed. The ceiling was our future,
wet with paint and silver like lost fog.
(Said much prior:
I finger in your name on the dust of dressers,
on the windowpanes of outdoor shops—
I read it on the wrinkles of clothes during damp days.)
My eyes, a strange piano note.
Plucked violin chords stood.
See me as montage with light against my back
walking into the next seconds as if they’re standing still.
(Meaning it, like all was real.
Saying it, knowing nothing is.)
And her eyes were bent flowers
covered by raincoats held out by arms stretching.
Then her/my eyes WERE flowers and your name was black ceiling paint.
Truly, I’m with the pen and the lonely,
bleary and writing on a Sunday morning.
You’re not good anymore and you’re not even my trouble.
I know you I know you I know you well.