sonnet 155

Sonnet 155

I’ve had a lot to give, always more give to offer
but the soft spot in my chest is slowly getting softer
wayside bullets weighed down in the revolver
every next shot—not going farther

I’ve had a lot of love that went off and disappeared
thrown into the wind, taken refuge in the clear
ears perked up for all the answers I could hear
but I haven’t heard nothin—for some years

I’ve had ten fingers, one soul, and ten toes
post-shower moments standing naked with no clothes
water dripping, goosebumps, warmth turning to cold
where are you?—I’m getting old

Breathe into the ground that you’re standing on now
let it be—don’t worry how

I was running late.

I was running late.

I can’t say I don’t know why I was because I do.  There is just a habit I have of getting too comfortable sometimes…or maybe it’s laziness…or maybe it’s negligence.  What was a morning with an early alarm clock became a door with too many things in front of it—shit, I laid down most of those things.  So, when I did finally make it out of the house—telling myself it was going to be a good day (because so far it had been) up until the moment I saw a new bill for something specifically Brooklyn; I was temporarily deviated off course.

You see, I’m a man of superstitions.  Somehow I’ve convinced myself that if I don’t run at least part of the way towards the train station then there is no way I will make the train I need to catch.  That’s kind of been the way I’ve operated since moving to New York, but it sprouted from the same routine in Seattle of getting too comfortable, finding things to do last minute, and then delaying myself to the bus station.  Same scenario.  I would always tell myself that I had to start running and sure enough, when I’d get to that little bend when Phinney curves from 45th St. to 46th, I’d see the 44 bus coming and book my ass to the stop—deep down knowing that my earlier jog upon departure was worth it.  

Today, I must have just missed it.  I looked at the arrival board and it said the next A train would come in 8 minutes (they usually come every 8 minutes).  I elected not to get on the local C train that would arrive in the next five, further contributing to my theory that local trains might actually be faster than express trains, especially when it comes to the A.  So onto the train I went and by good fortune I found myself a seat.  I had been on auto-pilot for the next couple of stops until a little later I was startled by a loud voice yelling, “STOP TOUCHING ME, BITCH!”  Like everyone on the train I wheeled around to see what the problem was and could see that one woman was yelling at another woman who was sitting aside her boyfriend.  I turned around thinking that it was nothing more than a loud voice and a little spectacle, but I should have known better.  You see, New York is one of these places that remind you that anything small can quickly escalate into something much bigger.  A fight is always around the corner and some dynamite is always a lit match away from blowing up.  I heard the one woman yell again, “I SAID, STOP TOUCHING ME BITCH!”, to which the other woman apologized quietly.  This time however, before I could turn around to see what had happened, the yell was followed by a resounding SMACK!  It even shook me a little.  I was shocked that the woman had actually been that moved to do something.  When I turned around this time I didn’t see anything different, except that the boyfriend tried to diffuse the situation; it was clear he was in the middle.  The couple got up from their seats seconds later and quietly walked over to the other part of the train, the woman now sporting a bright red mark on the side of her cheek.  The eyes of every passenger were glued to the now empty seat.  The train made its next stop and the couple exited to wait for the next train or maybe not.  Maybe they were just a minute or two away or the wrong seat away from getting to their destination unharmed.  Who knows.  The boyfriend stared at the woman until he got off probably wishing he could have done more.  Still, the woman continued, “Bitch kept hitting me with her umbrella…bitch kept on hitting me with her umbrella…woke me up from my sleep.”  The tension wasn’t going anywhere.  A stop later that woman got off and the exchanged looks from the witnesses bounced off each other like ping pong.

I got off the train and wasn’t running late anymore.  Now, I just was.  The Madison Square Garden side of the street, the east side, seemed to be closed for an event, but I had already trotted across in the hope of taking my familiar route.  Cops were everywhere and trailers were stacked against each other as far as I could see.  When another guy could see my frustration at the unexpected blockade he said, “Welcome to the Zoo.”  I laughed a little bit.  I laughed and then just said fuck it.  Not having a sidewalk wasn’t going to keep me from going the way I wanted to go.  So, with full vigilance and a whole of craziness, I ran through traffic with a line of cars approaching to my left and three oncoming lines to my right.  I stayed atop the white lines like my life depended on it and abandoned all the recklessness I would normally resort to.  It wasn’t like I was going on a freeway or highway where the cars were going so fast that I wouldn’t have a chance to make a decision, but these cars weren’t stopping, either.  I felt free for a moment, almost like I was Tom Cruise or something.  Luckily none of the cars were keen on switching lanes because then there might have been a problem.  My peripherals were as heightened as ever, adrenaline pumping throughout my body, and honestly, I don’t think I ever looked down…just straight forward.  After a few blocks I found an open sidewalk again, but part of me wished the blockade extended all along down Eighth Avenue.  It’s times like that when I really realized where I was.  The taxi cabs, the honking, all the commotion surrounding me.  The ability to be an opportunist and not be scolded like jaywalking the second there is daylight.  I still ended up making it to class late, but not without being aware of a moment of my life that had just passed by.

In class, I was reminded of how fast I want to move.  The desire to speak quickly to get to an end.  The desire to move so much in the hope of getting somewhere.  I was reminded by my teacher to have more patience, compassion, and curiosity.  I was reminded to go slow no matter how much every ounce of my body wants to fight against it.  I was reminded to enjoy it.  To enjoy acting.  To enjoy the process.  To confront the habits.  Recognize them, deal with them, and then get better.  I was reminded.  

When the class was over I got back on the A train and because life is life and there are reminders every second you pay attention I was drawn to a situation that did not escalate.  A woman in the middle of a crowded car had a tote bad and some headphones in.  Unaware to her her tote bag was sticking right in the face of a man sitting down.  The man ignored the tote bag, kept ignoring it, not paying it any mind, even when I stared right back at him half-expecting he was going to do something about it.  The woman left and so did her tote bag and I interrupted his listening session to tell him what had happened that morning.  He listened and acknowledged the reality that everyone could be a second away from detonating, not needing to explain to me that at that moment he clearly wasn’t.  The train stops came and went and the doors opened and closed.  He stood up to let one of his friends sit down and I stood up so he could sit with his friends.  Before I left to go home I noticed all of them sleeping peacefully in unison…no umbrella to be found.     

an ode to a traveller

Clear the cotton balls out of your ears
to find that your hearing is much better
than the deaf you’re comfortable being
where drums resound much beyond
the sculpture that’s been blocking out the bullshit
not confronting the culprit (sideways mugshot)
the ability to listen and reason, long passed over
an unavoidable odor issuing from the
lack of waves—ignorant no longer

Unpack the union that was cemented in stone
incapable of cutting, an abyss full of tears
that you never got to, let harden and solidify
the sword that was stuck now a halloween costume
freak show in your mirror but invisible to others
flame throwing tools, your 10,000 hours
to reverse the damage that procrastination left you
a growing problem—just a problem—nothing more–your problem
the only solution currently—drill a hold in the core

Take two steps back and learn to restrain
examine your hands and the shape they’ve created
find that your breath had hiccuped its breathing
ceased to keep learning, resorted to fighting
a fist, two fists, aiming for tension
reads to fly and beyond apprehension
balled up and loaded, a weapon physique
with bullets as knuckles, a fingerless freak
look at the ten you forgot that you had

Wonder why you’re walking so so far ahead and
acknowledge your body floating across
the track meet surface foreign to touch
on the road to recovery with no lower body
the metaphor is: you’ve even going to fast
walked without feet, legs, thighs and calves
ran 100 meters, forgot to run laps
vanishing finish lines with no metrics attached
your feet in the distance—take better care

Visit the doctor, sit down and listen;
stay still through the cat scan, it’ll be over soon
recover the vitals, resolve all the wounds
the fractures and breaks and the ruptures and tears
will heal over time;
they look so soft, bones split like splinters
inflated lungs show grey underneath you
no pills or prescriptions to remedy an x-ray
relief of the mind, salvation of the soul

Give yourself up and let the light shine through
relinquish the darkness and the past drama whirlpools
syringe the IV and get better with fluids
lay down with your eyes closed, lie flat on your back
allowing your body to rise through the pull of change
a full body epiphany
an update in motion, alteration of pace
one life to live, only one life to chase
your dreams

Disclaimers; because my sane mine had nothing better

Why is it that today when I woke up from my slumber and stumbled out of my bed with one eye locked closed and a lean like a freshly drunk teen for the first time that I stepped into the main room to see Meryl Streep napping on our couch with her feet up because not even Meryl can sleep comfortably on our couch.  After about 15 seconds going through my daily routine of loosening the eyelid to open giving me 20/20 vision I tip toed over to her to get a better look.  Indeed, it was her, but why was she here?  She slept with her glasses on and for some reason her hair was impeccable.  I mean, it didn’t really surprise me.  Meryl probably walks on water.  Where did she come from?  I tapped her lightly to get her attention and she opened her eyes peacefully, gathered herself, took her bag that had been resting on the couch’s side, picked up an inhaler, gave herself a boost and politely asked me if I would make her some breakfast.  I stared back at her for what seemed like a couple minutes.  Every once in a while rubbing my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and tapping her lightly to see if was a living, breathing, human being.  She must have been really used to this because she looked back at me sweetly and without annoyance despite the fact that I had blinked and tapped her about as much as 1000 of her biggest fans outside of a movie premiere.  So, like any normal gentleman who has the opportunity to make Meryl Streep breakfast, I did.  

I told her that I had enjoyed making breakfast a lot more recently and it was actually my favorite thing to make during the day.  Since it was Meryl I was ridiculously indecisive about what to make her.  I didn’t want to get it wrong, you know?  So, I started her off with some cereal and almond milk.  She happily obliged and called it a settling appetizer.  I didn’t think twice.  Of course Meryl was used to getting three course plus breakfasts.  I had about four fruits and thought a fruit bowl might be another good appetizer so I cut her some strawberries, added blueberries, raspberries, grapes, and a banana.  She jokingly asked, “No papaya?  No mango?  No pineapple or cantaloupe?  Watermelon would be good.”  And then proceeded to fall back and chuckle at her joke that scared me more to death than loosened the mood.  She graciously accepted the fruit spread and devoured it immediately.  It almost seemed like she was getting hungrier and hungrier.  OK Meryl, I thought.  I got something that’ll knock you on your ass.  A sausage, beans, arugula, spinach, cilantro, basil, tomato, onion, garlic, pepper, mushroom, mozzarella scramble with potatoes on the side.  When she the plate I prepared for her I detected a semblance of shock and she had the audacity to try and tell me that the plate looked too good to eat.  She abstained and played it off like she wasn’t going to eat the thing I spent super long making for her!?  This is Meryl though, I thought.  And if there was one thing I learned throughout this whole experience it was that she might be as good a comedian as she was a dramatic actor.  You had to hand it to her…she certainly earned her reputation as being the best actor to walk the earth.  When she was done with the final part of breakfast, I washed the dishes.  I didn’t have an appetite–my attention was solely focused on her—and in between dishes I would look her way to see what she was up to and try and figure out what she might be thinking.

The obvious question was never asked:  What was she doing here?  It was like one of the most common acting and improv lessons that they teach you right from the jump…”yes, and…”  It got to the point where I didn’t even care to ask her anymore.  I knew this opportunity might never come again, so I was to be there at her service until she no longer needed them anymore.  She stayed quiet for quite some time.  Pulling a Lorca book of poetry out of her bag.  (While she did so a couple of other books fell to the floor, “Jorge Luis Borges: a biography” and “Neruda, Neruda: The Poet.”)  I was so tempted to ask her if she was playing all three of them in a new movie, but I didn’t want to come off as arrogant.  I wouldn’t have put it past her, but I wanted to give her her privacy.  She stayed silent for a long time, so I carried on my day as if it was a normal one by taking a shower, maybe even taking it for granted that she might still be there when I got out.  After a quick soothing, yet scalding shower I got out of the bathroom and to my great sadness saw that she was not on the couch anymore and had left.  I should have known.  I shouldn’t have taken it so lightly, but when I opened the door to my room I saw that Meryl was sitting in the chair in front of my desk and was looking over my books and plays, while humming to herself.  I hadn’t gotten dressed yet and still had my towel on, so somewhat confusedly I got a pair of boxers and put them under my towel, grabbed a random shirt and threw it on, stepped beside her to get some pants and hopped into them clumsily and sat on my bed to throw on my socks before looking in her direction to find out what she might have up her sleeve next.  I was somewhat shocked when she told me that I wasn’t reading enough.  That’s all she said, at first.  You need to read more.  She continued by saying that I had a lot of things in my drawers that would find a better home if they were hung up or posted.  Pictures, maps, memories.  They were locked away in those drawers.  “What was I hiding?” she inquired and hummed.

Finally, I couldn’t resist it anymore.  I had to ask her what she was doing in my apartment.  Why she was here?  Why now?  How did she find us?  One answer would provide for all of them, but I had so much bottled up energy in me to be directed towards her that finally I couldn’t take it anymore.  She shrugged the question off, ignored it even for a moment, but then turned the chair completely towards me and smiled that warm smile and explained herself.  “You are not dreaming,” she started.  “I am very much Mary Louise Streep.  The truth is, I don’t know much of how I ended up here either.  I feel fine, just a little tired, but this happens every once in a while.  Sometimes I wander alone at night and wake up in foreign homes on foreign couches to kind samaritans who know who I am and go out of their way to treat me.  I don’t ask them to, but they do.  They ask nothing of me, so in turn, I try to do what I can to examine their lives and help them how I can.  I don’t pretend to know everything, but after a while you get a sense of people.  You have pictures of your family in nice tight sets in this cozy little drawer.  Why not put them in an album or put them on a picture board an make them visible?  You have books for show when you haven’t read them all and a stack of notes on your desk that could use some organization.  I just get the sense of incompleteness.  Stop me if I’m wrong.  What do you think?

Suddenly I wished that Meryl would go and I didn’t want her to stay and try to analyze my life any longer.  Sure enough, like all good actors and energy readers, she must have sensed it on my face because she furrowed her brow a little bit when I neglected to respond, apologized, gathered her things and then headed towards the door.  I told her I was sorry and that I wished she wouldn’t leave, but she told me it was just time to go.  She thanked me for the breakfast, gave me a ticket to come and see her premiere a new documentary she was narrating about Spanish poetry and said she hoped to see my there.  I looked at the glossy premiere ticket that said, “VIP-All Access” and told her I’d be there.  She smiled happily and told her she would treat me to dinner after the premiere and starry eyed I replied, “…I wouldn’t miss it.”  Unexpectedly, she motioned over to me, looked me up and down, sighed, and gave me a hug that, I swear to god, could have resurrected any cold soul, broken soul, broken heart, or fractured human being.  It was a hug that warmed the blood.  A prolonged embrace and it was one that caught me by such surprise that I didn’t have a chance to share the hug.  My arms were locked at my sides.  Thirty seconds it lasted.  I counted every one of them.  As you would too if Meryl Streep was hugging you.  She let go, smiled her smile and left.  I went back to my room and fell asleep.

The day of the premiere came and I got dressed in my best clothes.  When I got there the carpet was star-studded and packed and I was allowed in the back because of my VIP pass, but when I spoke to the head he told me that Meryl had fallen ill and would not be attending the premiere.  I nodded my head and told him thank you.  I left before the documentary even started and got home dejected, but what would this fictional story be, if I forgot to mention that upon arriving at my home Meryl was asleep on the couch, again, dressed to the nines.  How she got in my house again, I have no clue, but it was all OK.  I would make her some tea in the morning.

drunkenness

Mouth agape open jaws on the floor drooling
head sagging to one side and back
like a magnet puppeteer
noble like the attempt to spend a whole year
without drinking even a sip of alcohol
the spirits laughing during their consumption
another resolution tarnished and scarred
by temptation

Head drilled on straight like a mechanical
ready to say no and keep on pushing forward
sobriety on extreme like abstinence on promiscuity
but handles and fifths and pints and cups
are easily held like a game of Edward 40-hands
scotch tape fingers with adhesive stickiness
clinging on to all nighters and way more funners
because being the sober guy in a warehouse room
is being a slow stapler amongst a shelf of notebooks

Words come out slow and sludgy like batter
without churning or sift, leaning and falling sideways
like a styrofoam cup of liquid codeine that slurs my words—
a solution I’ve never tried but one time faked to get
only to get prescribed regular over the counter cough medicine
the University of Washington stingy through their intelligence
preventive in their handouts and snobby in their possessions
another story I couldn’t create but had to live vicariously through

Head heavyweight, a mike tyson statuette
falling down stairs in the form of slushy roads
somersaulting the asphalt in an attempt to arrive
without scratches and scabs, bruises and bumps
on the doorstep of a crown heights stoop, quiet tonight
vacant of festivity while the inhabitants flee
to other areas that promise stimulation
and aerial acrobats that rave of strawberry fields

Tongue out the mouth hoping for saliva in the air
due to a summer cold long overdue turned wintery
sniffles from the freezing temperatures for reminders
that layers upon layers are needed at night
to thaw the ice inside of a cold heart gone black
brand new attitude to a Saturday Night Fever
but the Christmas sweater shown out was worn out
and too tight to attract the loose garment blowing in the wind

In and out of consciousness like a taxi ride on road bumps
quickening the pace to slow down for the stoplights
eyes opening and closing, readying and steadying
euphoria in the form of sweet, sexy, slumber
clothes flying off like a magical breeze
covers flying over like a blanket to make me sober
dehydratation can make chapped lips gasp
for a waterfall of musical notes that lift me into clouds

love songs and poems

Tried leaving a message but the time wasn’t right
over and over again but the mood wasn’t right
had to lay down, on my back, flat, and search
for the appropriate sayings, expressions, terms, and words
automated voice messaging system after the pound sign
erase the former, subsequent, get it right for the third time;
finally, a message worth keeping—sent

How do I follow up the voicemails you’ve left me of
well wishes, endearment terms and laughter?
three different languages of love providing
the foundation for which the joy can be had;
rooted in the core which I know to be my heart
that you gave me and I mirror back to you
a fraction of the whole—levity and gravity

What shall I get you for your birthday, I wonder:
the moon is on loan, but is willing to do a favor
the sun is off the market, but shows up for his daughters
the stars are on vacation, but know their alignment  
the galaxies are disputatious, will separate just for your sake
the rivers and oceans are problem solving, “take to your home”;
the elements have come together and calmed Flathead just for you

If I had the power to summon beyond
within, without, and to and fro
I’d give you all of every ounce;
the villas, the homes, the places to see
that Dr. Seuss couldn’t even bother to scheme  
oh the places you’ll go, oh the people you’ll meet
have a seat in the car, say wherever you please

A small little table—necessary
you know what you want and I know what you need:
a hazelnut brownie that melts to the touch
an espresso fudge chip, a sugary trip
a besalu kiss, also known as croissants—
and no matter how good, no matter what spot it hits
you’re more lovely than chocolate and as sweet as it gets

I hope on this day that you loosen your wings
revel in the earth and the love that you bring
walk on the water, look on from the mountain
and drink from the youth that you know as your fountain
celebrate the joy and the good times ahead
and dress in the crown that belongs on your head
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you…

Late night

Sneakers, new and old, squeak loudly on the basketball hardwood.  Five on five.  First team to eleven, going by ones and twos.  Four teams are waiting to play and the list promises to get longer and longer, but luckily the games go pretty quickly.  Still, you don’t want to lose because if you do you might not play again for a half hour—depending on the list maybe an hour.  This is late night basketball, where kids go to hone their skills, talk their shit, and get better, before, during and after the season.  Conversations bounce along like the basketballs in their palms.  Last Friday the conversation that dominated the courts was the difference between saying “hoop” and “ball.”  It was decided that it was a regional term.  A lot of the guys down in California would say “ball” and if you played down there and were good, you were considered a “baller.”  New York, too.  In Seattle though, where most of the people at these late night sessions were from, it was all about “hooping.”  You went to go “hoop.”  If you were good you were a “hooper.”  And if you were going to terrorize someone at the gym, you’d “hoop” them.  This might seem like a tame argument on the surface, but as the night went on at these gatherings, the tame becomes a little more intense.  You’d have the “hoopers” against the “ballers.”  That was just one of the things you’d be playing for, essentially the right to claim the better term.  The “hoopers” usually won.  Other nights it would cover everything from the best player in the NBA to the best team in the NBA.  “Russell?”  “LeBron?”  “Steph?”  “KD?”  “Kahwi?”  “Did he really just say Boogie Cousins?”  “Fuck outta here…”  The same guy would always monitor the wait list of teams.  He was the neighborhood old head, going in and out of sobriety, sometimes bringing in those shot bottles ranging from Jack Daniels to Jim Bean to Jameson to Hennessy.  Everyone loved him except when he would walk the fine line of sloshed and belligerent.  Luckily things never got too out of hand, but sometimes he would say strange things like, “Hey Davis, I hurt yo feelings and I don’t mean your emotions!” and people would kind of just stare back and process the meaning of his latest saying.  The competition was real, too.  Most of the time it was filled with elite high school players looking to get some good runs in, but sometimes you’d have several D1 athletes drop by, revisiting the gym that was their old stomping ground.  In the summer, it was a different story.  Not only would the current NBA players that were born in the city come by and play against each other, but they would bring their teammate friends, too.  It was like a late night pro-am.  If you thought the games to eleven went fast, these games went at a lightning pace.  You could put your head down to check your phone, look up and the game would be over.  A lot of the professionals were so good they would hardly break a sweat, but in those good runs, those memorable runs where two superstar teams would face each other, there was sweat flying everywhere.  Hard fouls—the street kind mind you, not the flagrant slap on the wrists called in the league—would occur as if they were common.  The energy never got malicious.  Not really, anyway.  Sometimes it would.  On rare occasions you’d get two NBA players that didn’t like each other at all and you could always tell how it was going to go because of how physical the games started off.  A layup attempt followed by a clothesline.  A hard screen to the knee.  An undercut gone horribly wrong.  There was only one time punches were thrown and landed.  Those two weren’t allowed to come back and they settled the rest outside.  No, it was just a lot of squaring up and empty threats over here.  The rights were won in the games not with the fists.  A lot of people agreed that the NBA games’ intrigue were short lived during late night.  What seemed to be more special was when the NBA players would mix and match with the high schoolers and the college athletes.  Those games were ultimately the most competitive.  And just think of the impact that had on the young guys.  One minute you’re playing against people you’re own age and then next think you know you’re playing with Paul George and Anthony Davis and they’re passing you the ball!  The NBA players were always so gracious, so willing to give, so willing to be patient.  Willing to teach too, but make no mistake, at the end of the day, they wanted to win.  It was against their nature not to.  Well, let’s take a look shall we?

The Golden State Warriors have dropped in.  Kevin Durant is to thank for this visit.  He’s always had a soft spot for Seattle and heard about late night during his days as a Sonic.  The energy when they came in the gym was absolutely electric.  It wasn’t a spectacular late night at the start, but within moments after dropping in, the word got out and better players started to show up, hoping to play alongside the defending championships.  A couple of the exceptional high school athletes, PJ Fuller and Kevin Porter are here.  Daejon Davis, currently at Stanford and Shaqquan Aaron, currently at USC are here.  Nate Robinson is here, Pierre Jackson is here.  Jon Brockman is here.  Bobby Jones is here.  What the Warriors will come to find out is that nobody plays harder than ex-NBA players looking to prove a point, looking to prove that they should still be in the league and that they can still compete with the best of them.  Nate Robinson made sure to get in the first game against the Warriors squad that had Steph and Klay.  That’s just who he was.  He was going to attack Steph every play, even though they had been former teammates.  The teams were about half and half because the Warriors didn’t want to all be on the same team.  Nate Robinson, Nick Young, Brockman, Bobby Jones, and Daejon were all on one squad and Steph, Klay, Draymond, PJ Fuller and Kevin Porter were on another.  The other players like Igoudala, Livingston, and McGee decided to be on different teams and KD elected to be on an all high school squad.  Steph opens up the game with two quick twos over Nate Robinson.  There is a chorus of ooh’s and aahs at the silky sound of the ball through the nylon.  Nate Rob laughs it off and so does Steph.  On the next possession Nick Young throws the oop to Daejon, who is savagely blocked by Draymond.  The ball skids to Kevin Porter who leads the break, fakes a pass to Steph an throws an alley cop to a trailing PJ Fuller who skies for the tomahawk, but is padded by Brockman.  After getting his own block Brockman outlets to a leaking Nate Robinson, who makes sure he’s being trailed by Klay Thompson, rises up and throws a disgusting dunk on Klay’s chase down attempt.  People on the sideline are going crazy.  The old head falls out of his seat.  The players couldn’t be enjoying themselves more.  Everyone except Klay, who always seems to find himself on the wrong side of the poster.  The game goes back and forth.  Shot for shot.  When Nate’s team is down 11-10 (it’s win by two) he hits a key bucket to tie up the score and both teams go back and forth, with an assortment of high flying acrobatics, deep three point attempts and great team basketball mixed with individual effort.  Finally the score is 20-20 and the game is down to it’s final point (straight up to 21).  Shit talking has commenced indeed and each team finds themselves equally under the other team’s skin.  Brick.  Brick.  Brick.  Brick.  A sneaky give and go has Daejon all by himself at the rim, but out of nowhere comes Steph with a rare defensive effort to send the attempt flying.  Klay Thompson corrals the rebound and gets a good head of steam against Nick Young.  With a nasty head fake he gets Young to bite, takes a dribble and a step, crosses back to his original position and Young skirts to the ground in a crippling crossover move.  Chaos ensues.  The stoic Klay looks at the broken Young, sets up an fires a nothing but net, pure as purified water bucket an the Splash brothers take the game.  Klay leaves the building as only Klay would do and the atmosphere in the gym reaches a fever pitch.  None of the games after quite reach the level of madness, but some great ones are played nonetheless.  KD’s high school squad against the Seattle squad was an incredible matchup and the team that ended up winning was the team featuring Igoudala and Livingston.  They were overlooked from the beginning and coasted to seven easy victories.  Finally the Warriors take turns leaving, some staying later than others.  Everyone kind of wondered if Klay would come back, but he never did.  The last person to leave was KD who sat out the last couple of games to talk to the old head, rearing his head back to laugh the drunker the old head got.  And so it went here at late night.  KD took the time to say goodbye to each player individually and the games continued even as the clocks hit 1 o clock in the morning.

The old head was the last person to leave and he was all alone, just him and his basketball sanctuary.  He got out the brooms and made sure the court was in good shape.  Nice and clean and shiny.  He threw away the shot bottles and sat down to look at the gym and ponder the latest edition of late night.  He reflected on his own playing days, his time as a ranked high school star, his legendary career at the state university and the promising NBA career that ended before it could get started.  He scratched his leg and smoothed his hands over the scars on both of his knees, knees which for many years had no cartilage in them at all.  Knees that were faulty to begin with and finally couldn’t withstand the daily grind.  Make no mistake, he was a legend anyway, but on nights like these he took a little longer to ponder what might have been.  He deserved that much, he thought.  When the memories in his head came to an end he got up slowly and went to the door to turn the lights off one by one.  After one last look he closed the doors and locked them, whispering a soft “See you next Friday, baby” before walking home into the night.

the mecca

If you can make it here you can make it
anywhere; the lights are a little brighter
the air a little thicker, not quite a mile high
but the pressure has suffocated
the many and the several who have come
and later gone—a name not a jersey
a memory not a story

Here they will give you the energy to feed off of
the spirit to uplift, fight through and conquer with
cheer you when you’re up and let you hear it when you’re
down—but fair warning don’t be down for long
or else you’ll sink like dead weight, quicksand in the
hardwood, like the trains around the corner
a cemetery underneath filled with graves

The stars align courtside like camera constellations
champions of a team with few rings to show
for years they’ve fielded incomplete squads
dysfunctional hooligans, bums, and delinquents
“unheard ofs” with no talent, veterans with no knees;
there’s a petition going around to rename themselves
the New York Diamond Districts

Perpetuity is a saving grace like 1970 and ’73
but consequently serves as a daily suffering
to blind loyalists and inherent aficionados;
so many jerseys that hang like festering reminders
of how many years its been since Larry O Brien
preceded the home town team—
so close in ’94, so far in ’99…and now further than ever

Seasons change in extremity, more nowadays,
but make no mistake the weather here is fair-weather
case in point:
twenty point lead—young misfits vs the king
and the crowd goes wild (crowd going wild)
jumping up out of their seats, most spilling their drinks
but lest we forget: the game isn’t won in the second quarter

23 down, but 23 is Crown—opposing team mounts
a steady flurry of 2 for 1s and 3s for 2s
culminating in a sell out crowd standing at attention
90 seconds left, size up in motion
unicorn floating, step back practice
space him out like a mathematical equation;
GAME

Shelton J. has seen enough,
sick to his stomach he throws his hoodie on
and leaves a sinking feeling at MSG
as moments later the once exalted arms of the
hopeful crowd are body language limbs
fallen limp at the wayside;
an empty Mecca awaiting its next Hajj to come

the one who isn't

Smiley faces huddled around a table
gleaming and grinning, eyes staring
and spinning after their umpteenth trip
to the bar—providing the alcohol blanket
needed to combat the subzero temperatures

Families and friends and families of friends
mothers and grandmas, grandsons and cousins
running around, everywhere to be found
two branches interweaving
and shedding before winter

Middle aged woman in a black dress
taking long calculated sips of pinot
in between intimidating stares burning holes
into the bride of the groom—the groom
the newly engaged husband, that guy over there

She stalks the dining room like a leopard
in an empty jungle, the jaguar in the corner
getting sweet with his panther princess—
he’s losing his spots, she thinks
the ones she left on him, at least

The leopard wags her tail in the wings
stopping by the people she acquainted
spanned time with and ingratiated
(imminent ascent reciprocation)
she’s just the down escalator now

The camera guy takes several pictures
careful to hold for the help to pass through
but when he goes to review the photos he took
he finds a peculiar burst—
the leopard looking in the jaguar’s direction
mouthing aloud with no one around

She is cursing him, his lady, their children, their future
their home, their money, the large, minutia
his strut, his way, his air, his grace
his heart, his limbs, his (****), his space
he escaped her, but she cannot escape him

The first to leave and the first to return
venue changed over, the remnants are none
a lonely leopard in her four cornered room
revenge is sweet on the tip of her tongue—
presently numb

The boy and the girl and the bedroom

INT. - BEDROOM - EARLY MORNING

We are in the bedroom.  Hers, not his.  He wishes he had a bedroom this big—maybe that’s why he’s here and she’s not there.  It reminds the boy of a gym in the sense that there is at least one mirror posted on every side.  It didn’t exactly represent her personality, the boy thought.  She was very unassuming, very humble.  He wondered why she needed to have so many mirrors, especially one right in front of the window.  He liked windows.  Liked to see outside, people watch, and explore the neighborhood with his eyes, but he couldn’t do that here.  Here he is forced to look at his own reflection, her own reflection—staring right back at him all the time.  At certain times of the day, in certain situations, he can’t help but feel that there is no privacy in the room; there is always the feeling that he’s being watched.  During intimacy.  During sex.  Sleeping.  He peels one eye open only to see the mirror on the ceiling has been glued to him for hours.  One part of the room is where she puts on her minimal amount of makeup.  Just for kicks one time the boy counted how many different products she had: four.  He would always wonder aloud why she needed to have a makeup station when she didn’t have any makeup or put any on really (something he had always commended her for).  In the corner of her make up mirror is a picture of the boy and the girl—a sign that suggests they might be more than what they are or could be if it weren’t for the fact that there were no photos on social media of them together and neither of them had told their parents anything.  They were both content being as close as they were without the whole world knowing.  

He met her on the train, as random as random could get.  It was a late winter day, February or March, and he was heading home listening to music and she was right in front of him—not listening to music, but in her own world.  If you asked them, neither could say with certainty who was “it” first, but they proceeded to play eye tag for the whole start of the subway ride home.  She’d look at him.  He’d look at her.  Never looking at the same time.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  And then their eyes met and both of them were entranced.  A uncomfortably comfortable held gaze and then they broke it.  For about a second before they did it again and she spoke first and he followed and they exchanged numbers that night, went out the following week, made love, started seeing each other from time to time, then more consistently, which pretty much brings us to them and these mirrors.  If you’ve been following along you’ll realize that only one corner of the room has been described and there are three very distinct sections left.  The other corner is a shrine to the girl’s father, who passed away when she was very young.  He was an immensely popular figure in her family, a wonderful husband to his wife and a great father to his four girls, and his memory was so strong, so vivid, so powerful, that the girl has always taken the shrine with her wherever she’s gone.  It’s grown in size.  There are more pictures now.  More artifacts.  More things.  CD’s he liked.  Books, too.  Lotions he used.  Hats he wore.  Candles perpetually lit in his honor.  The boy admires the shrine greatly, but sometimes feels as if its gaze is as unwavering as the mirrors.  He never dared say anything to the girl, but as the shrine as grown little by little, he is starting to feel like the father is actually there in the room.  His spirit is present.  The third corner has two things of note: a gargantuan dresser and a clothing rack of articles that the girl has designed.  The boy always jokes around that designing more clothes is awesome, except she doesn’t need anymore considering she has the biggest dresser in the world.  He’s only half-serious.  One of the things he likes most about the girl is her creativity.  And the fourth corner—the last corner.  The yoga corner.  Where the girl rises in the early morning each and every day and finds her inner peace, finds her calm, and her breath.  Always to the dismay of the boy, who always wakes up because of her movements and the accompanying music she plays.  When he rises, moans and groans because of how early it is, she softly offers up another yoga mat if he feels so daring, but he declines and nestles himself back to sleep while she continues her morning ritual.  

He loves her bed.  Not just because she’s usually in it, but because it supports him.  He never liked the bed at his apartment.  Yes, he could sleep, but there was something missing.  It just didn’t hold him the right way.  Not the way she held him.  Not the way her bed held him.  Maybe it was because she had just the right amount of pillows.  Three.  One for him.  One for her.  And one for whoever needed it.  You see, at his place he had his pillow and another one that for the longest time was of no use.  Finally, one day, he took the second pillow and started to hold it when he fell asleep.  He tried it with his arms outstretched.  He tried it under his legs to create the perfect sleeping posture.  He tried it around his midsection, but for the life of him nothing seemed to work.  No matter what he did he’d wake up the next morning with a crook in his neck.  Tight as tight could be.  Like his collarbone had been raised.  He hated it.  In her bed, it was a different story.  There was always something to hold on to and there was never anything wrong when he woke up the next morning.  Not at all.  Not even the damn music or the damn yoga.  She gave him a key to her apartment and a key to her bedroom and some days he would come there after work and sleep in her bed, even when she hadn’t returned from her work, yet.  When when he would get there last and she was waiting for him—sometimes awake, sometimes asleep—he would crawl into the bedroom, inch closer to her, and proceed to grab ahold of her caressingly, never too tight, around the sweet spot of her abdomen.  Not around her belly button.  Just a little above.  He would always joke that there was no good place to put his other arm.  Sometimes it would get stuck under his side.  Sometimes it would get stuck under her body.  Usually he would place it under his pillow, right under his head and this would do the trick.  Holding on to her in that comfortable bed under the softest blankets you could ever dream of.  For her birthday a year ago she was gifted with Egyptian cotton sheets.  It was like sleeping on a cloud in heaven, he imagined.  He didn’t know from experience, but he figured that’s what it must be like.  And the bed was big.  Big enough.  His bed at home did not allow him to fully extend; his feet would always pop out of the end.  Not here, though.  Not in this bed.  He could stretch without getting up and be as big as he wanted to be.  With her.  

Was this the bed he wanted to stay in?  He had been asking himself that question a lot, lately.  Avoiding it, too.  All signs pointed to yes.  She pointed to yes.  The way he felt about her pointed to yes.  To be able to be with someone like her and not ever feel weight on his shoulders was something he had never found and had been clearly taking for granted.  He had already basically abandoned his own bed.  Did she feel the same way?  He thought she did.  Maybe she didn’t put it into words quite like he did, but he could tell that she was comforted by his presence.  She enjoyed seeing him waiting for her when she got home.  It wasn’t hard to tell.  Her mattress was his home.  It molded itself to him.  Their mold.  He looked into her eyes tonight.  They had both taken the day off and had found each other lying next to each other as always.  She was facing the window and he was facing the back of her head, burning a hole of wonder into it.  She must have felt the heat because she turned around and stared right back at him.  He looked at her with wonder and they spoke silently to each other.  He noticed how brown her eyes were.  How her pupils and her eye color sort of blended together.  He scanned her forehead and the top of her hairline, which featured some baby hairs.  He wandered to her nose and admired her nose ring, then moved to her ears and her many piercings.  Then her lips, which he hung onto until he was ready to leave them.  He delighted in her cheeks and focused on her expression.  She was in deep thought.  Probably doing the same thing he was.  Looking him up and down.  Staring through him like she always would.

Finally their eyes stopped traveling and locked on each other.  Locked like their bodies.  And in unison, without moving, they threw their keys away.  

The boy turned off the light.

Boy knows girl version 1

This is a modest one bedroom apartment.  The ones you’ve seen where everything is connected.  Does that make it a studio?  The front door opens to a living room that doubles as a kitchen and a little further down to the right is the bathroom, which is right next to the bedroom.  You can tell that two people live there though.  It’s almost as if the couple living there decided which rooms would be catered to the other’s preference.  A living room with the spare framed photo up, minimalist furniture, and a television resting casually on a TV stand.  The kitchen is more colorful.  Different colored plates, pictures on the refrigerator in a clutter—including the only one of the couple together, pots and pans hanging down from the counter above.  It’s not in a state of disarray, but “the things” are out.  The kitchen is a kitchen.  The living room looks like it was freshly cleaned for an AirBnB.  The bathroom was mutually agreed upon.  No bullshit.  Things are kept very nice and tidy indeed, in here.  A inside of the medicine cabinet looking like a freshly done proof.  The bath/shower with all sorts of gels, hair, products and an herbal soap for the cherry on top.  The bedroom is their relationship.  Two distinct sides, one area for the man, one area for the woman.  The bed—mostly made.  One part of it, at least.  The whole atmosphere very much looks like a partnership that is requiring some work to feel and look put together.  But is it?  That is the question.  The couple has lived together for two months now after going out for roughly a year.  They love each other, but living with one another has been hard and not without its speed bumps.  The girl is a dancer, but currently works in finance and the boy is a disgruntled actor.  They are making it work.  They decided to move in because they thought it was time…they thought it was time.  Maybe it wasn’t.  The benefits: they love each other, do everything together, cook together, go out together, fall asleep together.  The cons: they do everything together, cook together, go out together (all the time), fall asleep together.  They mostly have things in common although their attitudes are different, but they survive like a scale keeping things even keeled.  The girl enters exhausted and throws her bag on the nice leather chair, the keys on the coffee table, and heads into the kitchen to grab a drink.  She pops open a bottle of Corona and sips it, refreshed.  Almost.  She exits into the bedroom to grab something and returns with marijuana paraphernalia.  A plastic baggie with a couple of pre-rolled joints.  An ashtray.  A lighter.  And another little baggie of more weed.  She sets it down carefully on the coffee table, ignites one of the joints, puffs her first hit, sets the lighter down, and grabs the ashtray to prevent a mess.  Each subsequent hit is a release of the shoulders, the neck muscles that were grabbing the back of her head, the clenched fists for hips, the chest constantly on the defensive.  Each puff followed by an even greater sigh; the first time coughed a bit.  Air.  Taking in all she could after hours of being unable to find it.  Submerged in a dark place.  She receives a text from the boy that reads, “just got off the train, wanna make food or order out?”  The next couple of hits are quicker and she puts the weed and company back into the baggie, empties the ashes in the toilet, and returns the items to the bedroom.  She replies, “don’t know, just got home, pretty tired.”  Elipsis.  “Sooo…order out,” the boy replies.  “Sure”, she says.  “Fine.  See you in a little,” he finishes.  The girl replays the day in her final moments before her reality returns.  Waking up early for “the job, spending every second not wanting to be there, wishing she could go home, seeing advertisements for the NY City Ballet, Alvin Ailey.  Dreaming of still being in her bed.  The boy enters.  Her dreaming ends.

Boy:  Fuuuuck.

Girl:  What’s wrong?

Boy:  I just remembered we’re out of toilet paper.  

Girl:  We are?

Boy:  Yeah.  Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something.  

Girl:  It’s ok.

Boy:  I just need to go to the bathroom.  Whatever.  I’ll just hold it in.

Girl:  Boy…

Boy:  (constipated face) Don’t worry, I took care of it.

Girl:  You’re gross.  

Boy:  And for some reason you still like me a little bit.

Girl:  Just a little bit.

They kiss.  The boy looks at her.  Then realizes the whole room smells like weed.

Boy:  You smoking again?

Girl:  Just a little bit.

Boy:  Baby…

Girl:  What?

Boy:  You know how I feel about you smoking weed.

Girl:  Yeah, I know how you feel.

Boy:  So you do it anyway?

Girl:  No one ever said you had to…

Boy:  You’re right, they didn’t.  Whatever.  Next time can you at least smoke out of the window?  This place stinks.

Girl goes over to the windows and returns to the couch.  

Boy:  How was work?

Girl:  Scale of 1-10?

Boy:  Yeah, sure.  

Girl:  Shitty.

Boy:  I’m sorry to hear that.  Boss or clients?

Girl:  Both.

Boy:  You ask for that raise you were telling me about?  

Girl:  No, I’ll do it next week.  

Boy:  OK.

Girl:  What?

Boy:  Nothing, it’s just…that’s what you said last week.  And you’ve been talking about that raise for a while now.

Girl:  I just wasn’t feeling it, today.

Boy:  Whatever, it’s OK.  

Girl:  How were your appointments?

Boy:  I think they were good!  I thought I killed the one for the NBC pilot.  They said they really liked it.  Binder was OK.  Rubin was pretty meh.  The Telsey one was awful.  

Girl:  That was the ABC lead?

Boy:  Yeah.

Girl:  Well, you should be OK, right?  I mean, you always say you’ve gotten stuff after feeling like you did terribly.  I’m sure you did great.

Boy:  Thanks girl…

They kiss.

Girl:  So what you making me for dinner?

Boy:  What am I making you for dinner?

Girl:  That’s what I said.  

Boy:  Didn’t you just say we were gonna order out?

Girl:  I changed my mind.  I want you to cook for me.  You always say you’re gonna do it.  And I could use a nice home-cooked meal from Baby Boy.

Boy:  I don’t have any of the ingredients to make anything, though.  The dish I want to make you takes a lot of time.  I would have needed to start hours ago, you know?

Girl:  So you’re not gonna cook for me?

Boy:  Why don’t we just order out like we talked about.  

Girl:  Maybe I don’t want to anymore.

Boy:  We can always just go out to dinner too, if you want?

Girl:  I don’t wanna go out again.  I just got back from work.

Boy:  OK.  So, let’s review.  You don’t want to go anywhere to eat, but you don’t wanna order out.  And you don’t wanna make food here.  

Girl:  You forgot to add that “and you don’t wanna make food here.”

Boy:  You’re right.  I did forget that.  “And I don’t wanna make food here.”

Girl:  Well looks like we’re not gonna make food together.

Boy:  OK, but actually, I’m pretty hungry, so can we make a decision?

Girl:  Well, I’m not that hungry to be honest.

Boy:  You don’t want to try that new Thai restaurant?

Girl:  Wow…I think I’m hungry all of a sudden.

Boy:  You aren’t funny.

Girl:  Try again, boy.

Boy:  Why do you do this?  Every Friday Night.  Always the same shit.  “I don’t want to do this.  I don’t want to do that.  My legs are hurting.  I have a headache.”

Girl:  —go on.

Boy:  So that’s a no on the Thai.  OK.  What about Juniors?  That’s your favorite spot.  We haven’t been there for a while.

Girl:  …oh, you’re finished?  

Boy:  Well, no, but for right now I am.

Girl:  What about, “I don’t have the ingredients.  Can you make that really good thing you always make?  You sure you don’t wanna just make something?  I already spent money on lunch today and I don’t want to spend any more money.  I’m just so tired after working for five hours today…should I go on?

Boy:  I’m gonna go get some toilet paper.  That shit just came back.  You need anything from the store?

The boy walks to the door and opens it.

Girl:  Yeah, how about those ingredients and some rolling paper?

Boy:  You can spend your money on your own things.  Anything else?  Tampons?  Prozac?  Lexapro?  Zoloft?

Girl:  Fuck you.

Boy:  So, condoms?

The girl walks to the door and slams it shut.

Girl:  I changed my mind.  We’re gonna stay in tonight?

Boy:  Great!  That’s great.  But do you want me to take a poop without toilet paper or have you been stealing some of them and using them to roll joints?

Girl:  Fuck you, boy.

Boy:  Looks like I’m still going to the store.

Boy opens it.  Girl slams it before he can walk out.

Girl:  We’ve got a problem.

Boy:  Tell me something I don’t know.  

Girl:  I don’t know if I love you anymore.

Boy:  What?

Girl:  That was something you didn’t know.

Boy:  I think I just shit my pants.

Girl:  …boy, i’m serious.  

Boy:  Well, I don’t believe you.  I’m going to stop at the store to get some ingredients and I’ll be right back.

Opens the door.

Girl:  Boy…

Boy:  Anything else you need from me?  I’ll be quick.

Girl:  I’m serious…  

Boy shuts the door.

Boy:  Why don’t you just sit down for a minute…

a handful of apples

You were the second version of an esteemed predecessor
who had set the tone as best it could
gave me life when I was dormant
gave me hope when I was lonely
but couldn’t survive a furious throw—cracked the head

I used to despise your existence—still do
hated your hold on me when I held you
neglected you for reasons I never followed through on
always coming back to you, ending up with you
cursing you out, your being, your automated response

Your temperamental was incomparable
swear to god I could have ended you
acting on impulse, leaving home unannounced
trying to return you to safety
but you never listened

How does it feel to have a body with no brain
a hard drive lobotomy, looking for a new chief;
it’s all over McMurphy—this isn’t a game
your authenticity and intentions
are applauded no more

I had a name for you at one point
now you’re just a higher number
don’t protest the math adds up
your programmed obsoleteness
was laid out for you before you made a difference

Nowadays, they don’t let me keep my artifacts
the scrapbooks you made me, places you directed me
people you introduced me to, networks you aligned
even when you’re gone, they take me away from you
monetary gain, infomercial incentives, a price tag memory

Unlike my lack of faith I believe I’ll see you
reincarnated in an altered form
revisiting my touch in sleek styled fashion
responsive to a different language that I need to relearn
accelerated dialogue equals instant communication

You take care of yourself, ok?
muffled talk and all like you couldn’t hear yourself speak
a capacity to offer more than was ever fully there
a replacement
but nevertheless, moments in time and a piece of my history

Boy Meets Girl version 1

EXT. - STARBUCKS - AFTERNOON

We are in the dreaded Starbucks.  A screenplay teacher might be mad that I say this, but it really doesn’t matter which Starbucks it is.  Let’s say it’s not in Seattle.  The music is awful.  They are playing one of those CD’s that they used to sell in their shops, but don’t actually sell anymore.  They probably started to sell them on iTunes after forming a relationship with Apple Music.  You know, a Starbucks channel or something of that nature.  It’s been a while since I stepped foot in one.  The lines are what they always have been.  Too fucking long.  And it’s never been about the coffee, it’s all about the culture.  Gotta get up early and get my Starbucks before work.  Despite being a non-coffee drinker, I’ve always thought it said a lot about Starbucks that there were so many variations of drinks that they offer.  So many things besides coffee.  That’s gotta be a sign that the coffee sucks, right?  It’s like a distraction, right?  Here are all of the cool sounding drinks that will take the attention away from common coffee staples, which we have no interest in promoting because we know it’s so awful.  Triple chocolate macchiato frappe whatever the fuck, buy this overpriced piece of crap because our base ingredient it absolutely trash.  I got a lot of respect for the baristas and people that work there though.  I do.  Like 90 percent of the time, I do.  The fact that you gotta know how to make all of those things is bad enough.  Then because you’re a part of the Starbucks culture you got to deal with the stereotypically annoying clients that ask for every variation under the sun.  Hold this.  Half of that.  Soy instead of regular.  Two bags of sugar.  Sheesh.  Good luck not blowing a gasket.  I’m gonna give the baristas 90 percent of the benefit of the doubt with that one.  The other ten percent they don’t get and the reason why is there is a longstanding bad reputation for not only not being able to write any name correctly, but completely butchering it with letters that don’t have any business being written out to those sounds.  Jasmine isn’t Jazmin or Jasmin or Jasmyn…it’s something completely preposterous like Jossmin or Gazmine.  For time’s sake, I guess I get it.  A lot of people, a lot of drinks, a lot of lines.  I always wonder who made that rule up.  Just write a bunch of letters to the first sound you hear.  It’s good enough.  I wonder what would happen if Starbucks baristas had as much pressure on them to get the name right as those faculty members at high school and college graduations.  I wonder if it would make a difference.  I also wonder if cafe’s always had the reputation for being half coffeeshop and half study place because nowadays it seems like getting a coffee and bringing your computer to work on stuff goes hand in hand.  That’s starbucks for you though.  Trendy drinks at arms length, faces lit by the computer screen.  Tuned out faces and the occasional yell of a name like “Wallahi” which is their version of William.

Boy:  Hey, have you been in line a long time?

Girl:  Forever and a day.  It seems like that’s usually the case on Mondays.  

Boy:  Why what happens on Mondays?

Girl:  Every regular seems to forget what they usually order.  It’s pathetic.

Boy:  Are you a regular?

Girl:  Yeah, but I have a tattoo of my favorite drink, so I don’t forget.

Boy:  You serious?

Girl:  No, I’m just fucking with you.  

Boy:  I was gonna say…

Girl:  What were you gonna say?

Boy:  That you’re very pretty, but you’re fucking crazy.

Girl:  Ouch.  Well lucky for you I’m just a little crazy.  I don’t get much here.  Just some coffee because it’s right by my work.  

Boy:  Must be annoying to have all these people taking so long to order when you just want to get some regular drip.

Girl:  Very.  

Boy:  Why don’t they make like an express line for people like you.  

Girl:  Or specifically for me!  

Boy:  Yeah, or that.

Girl:  Because that would be too difficult.  They already reeled us in a long time before they got us with the Pumpkin Spice craze.

Boy:  Gross.

Girl:  I’m offended…just kidding.  It is gross.  

Boy:  Why don’t you just go to a different cafe?  Like maybe it’s a little less convenient, but it’s cooler people and better quality.

Girl:  Well if you know something I don’t, I’m all ears.

Boy:  I don’t, but if I hear of something I’ll tell the world to get back to you.

Girl:  You don’t believe in asking for a number?  

Boy:  Not when I could ask for your IG or Snapchat instead.

Girl:  That’s right.  Asking for a number is like asking to borrow for sugar nowadays.

Boy:  I’d rather see how the rest of this conversation goes before I ask you for your math.

Girl:  My math?

Boy:  You know, I’ll be honest, someone told me that that’s what people say out here, and you’re the second person out here who has looked at me like I’m crazy.

Girl:  My math?  Really?

Boy:  Yeah, like your number.

Girl:  I know what you mean, but who is this person that told you to say that?  You didn’t filter out the bullshit from that suggestion?

Boy:  It’s hard to know what people find to be bullshit anymore.

Girl:  Good point.

Boy:  It’s been pretty good so far.  

Girl:  What…oh you mean this convo?

Boy:  I mean, I have my judgments about people that go to Starbucks, but all things considered you ain’t so bad.

Girl:  What’s your biggest judgment about people that go to Starbucks?

Boy:  That they unknowingly disrespect my livelihood.

Girl looks around the person in front of her to see what the holdup is.

Girl:  That’s quite a judgment.

Boy:  You must not be a basketball fan.

Girl:  I never said that.

Boy:  Well then this might be a test.

Girl:  I graduated last year.  I thought tests were over.

Boy:  Tests are never over.

Girl:  Sheesh.  OK…well let’s see.  Basketball and Starbucks.

Boy:  Warm.

Girl:  Sounds like Starbucks had something to do with your state of being a fan of basketball.

Boy:  Warmer

Girl:  Sponsorship?

Boy:  Colder

Girl:  They serve Starbucks at the games of your favorite team?

Boy:  Colder.

Girl:  Favorite player is a Starbucks spokesperson.

Boy:  Winter.

Girl:  Howard Shultz was the former owner of your basketball team, the Seattle Supersonics, and was also the former CEO of Starbucks and he sold your team to a bunch of evil tycoons out of Oklahoma City, who acted like they wanted to keep the team in Seattle, but really wanted to move them to Oklahoma City, thus leaving you without a team and embittered as long as you don’t have one.

Boy:…

Girl:  That’s got to be what…like Death Valley?  I’m on fire!

Boy:  That was impressive.  

Girl:  You should see me play.

Boy:  I think I’m ready to ask you for that number now.

Girl:  Ah, but did you ever think that moment might have passed?

Boy:  Looks like I got too cocky.

Girl:  I’m curious to see your next move.  

Boy:  I’m in a Starbucks.  I’m just trying to figure out how to get started.  Assuming I ever make it to the front to begin with.

Girl look around the person in front of her to see what the holdup is.

Girl:  Uh, hello?  Is everything OK up there?  

The barista looks to the girl pleadingly and then to the customer in front of her, who looks ticked off and impatient.

Customer:  Again.  That was a Venti iced coffee, 10 pumps vanilla, 10 pumps hazelnut, 5 pumps skinny mocha, and a splash of almond milk…PLEASE.

Girl:  Still waiting on those small cafes with the nice people suggestions…

Boy:  You can’t get it before you get on the train?  It’s gotta be right around work?

Girl:  That’s what I’m used to.

Boy:  Well, where do you stay?

Girl:  That’s a development for our next lucky conversation…

Boy:  I’m just saying there are plenty around where I live.  “Monkey Cup”, “Hamilton Latte”, and “Gin Seashell Verandah.”  

Girl:  “Monkey Cup”…is that on Amsterdam?

Boy:  Yup.

Girl:  Ah.  

Boy:  Meet you there tomorrow morning before work?

Girl:  Might not have enough time to talk if there’s no line…

Boy:  I’m sure I can figure something out.

Girl:  Ok.  Well tell ya what.  I’m gonna head out because I’m running late now.  I’ll try Monkey Cup this week.  I’ll be there early.  

Boy:  What time?

Girl:  Ah, but that would be too easy.

Boy:  Well, let the games begin.  

Girl:  Who knows, maybe if I like it I’ll change my routine.

Boy:  I’ll be praying for that.

Girl:  You’re funny, Giselle.

Boy:  My name is Kevin.

Girl:  Well now you know my name, too.  See you around Kevin.

*SCENE*

p.s.

expired ID from home—a sign
to use my passport to get in bars
where I won’t drink;
to identify with the place I live
and jump off the diving board;
to go to the store and purchase
a new device to be instinctual

a shower should do the trick
of washing the past couple days off—
the serotonin bliss of out-of-town visitors
stuck faces and stomach clutching
reshaping my mind cause I said I’m supposed to
and I will…
cold water only

ears perked up to daily sayings
that I could have heard from a rabbi or priest
but instead hear from my extremities
“they decided to be happy”
“it’s a personal choice”
“they took charge of their personality”
“…and you can do it, too.”

an apple is an oyster
as opposed to an unready clam
that opens when you want or need
it to be ready
—but remember that the price of talk
is selling at an all time low
dirt cheap, root cheap—a falling stock

your stomach is telling you to consider veganism
your hands are telling you to lift your spirits
and keep them there
your feet are telling you to stop shuffling
but move with a purpose
and the innate is telling you to trust
a gut you’ve been shaving off

to tell others or be told
are windshield raindrops:
they rise and fall at the speed of their storm;
to tell yourself and leave your hand up like
Sanaa Lathan at USC
the BEEF in the bones
the drowned out tones
around you

you were good to me

he first night you came to me with open arms
and endless pockets, a hope of the year to come—
but I sobered up quickly and left you alone
for as long as I could, revisiting you on
a special occasion or two

You stayed with me like a prolonged summer,
a summer I longed for and then wished
I could be done with
the rainy days in my head confused
with what it was feeling on the outside

I wore you on my sleeve and in my face
exposed you, concealed you
labeled you, put you in a box
to some avail, mostly not
disappointed hopes like the battery on low

This landscape was supposed to be smoother
not as rough to the touch, less dirt in the nails
less brutal to my shoulders, tension relief
instead your steps slid sinking
each day a regathering—falling down, getting up

Each day telling myself, “it’s going to get better”
Each day reminding myself, “today is not yesterday”
Each day slapping myself, “It starts with being kinder”
Each day awakening, “You’ve slept a little longer”
Each day ending with, “There’s more room for growth”

The timing might be different, but the outlook is the same
two hands for clutching, two hands for seizing
the moment and reframing the oyster
to the image in your head that you’ve dreamt
of manifesting

You are not as heavy of a thought as I’ve made you
in my mind—not as cumbersome
you require a lot of time, ironically
but you are not the indefatigable asshole
that I used to make you, still sometimes make you

One day you won’t be the omnipresent enemy
you’ll be a friendly reminder—a Seattle day
full of rain and then sunshine, sunshine and rain
I’ll learn to love you in all of your forms
that I’ll be happy to see you when I’m passing away

ripples

I wonder where you are, I do
if you’re at your desk looking out the window
sighing, longing to be outside
taking a walk before the sunset
staying out before the sunrise

Are you still wavering like metronomes
uncomfortable with the pace of life
travel bug ahold of you
taking you away from established rhythms
forcing you to press reset every day

Maybe you aren’t and I wish you were
because that would make you more like me
selfishly, I hope
that you weren’t as solid as you’ve become
leaving me in the dust, reaching for air

You’re more than just a montage
more than an additional reflection I see
when I look into tranquil waters
and hope to see you there with me—
your hand the cause of the ripple

Is it possible to make me sick to my stomach
delightfully
give me the worst headache
welcomed
glue me so I’m stuck, so focused that I’m yawning

Please help me hate you, despise you, untaste you
because my health depends on it
my future depends on it
my hope depends on it
I could never do it—impossible

Dreams should not be manifested so realistically

grain could not have been more brown
spots in the film could not have been more red
credits should not have been so clear
beginning, middle, end should not have been so harsh
and smoky like the cigarette you kept on burning

Every day the question is:
where do i go from here?
you have already answered for yourself
because reality is within your grasp
dreams…you…

What’s the difference?

elephants

Beady eyes make the rounds
finger tapping on the dinner table
deep sighs and hushed breaths
an empty seat to the side
elephants in a room.

Silence blows round like random selection
memories rise to the surface
like a family coming up for air
no gasps, no chokes, no tears
for today that time has passed.

Chairs shift restlessly
and bodies are adjusted
looking up at the ceiling to wonder
how and why—
for what reason.

Cards opened to share sympathies
like different birds perched on skin
walking along the tusks
sweet, gentle words to the open ear
through giving mouths, hands, and bodies.

Sequences begin to permeate like spring
bees buzzing around dropping off honey
like liquid pixy dust, creating happy thoughts
lifting our dumbo ears off the ground
the huge flaps as open as ever.

They had been closed off
deaf to the ringing noise of news
ignorant of unfathomable realities
glued shut like flinching eyes
trying to force out bad dreams that weren’t there.

Pursed lips opened to share the wealth
of what wasn’t mentioned
hung around and hung above
like a scintillating chandelier
reflecting tangible glimpses.

The elephants stayed stationed
but the herd was moving again
if only for that moment, that night
addressing the absence of the baby
who ever present, always present
would be celebrated, for all time.

noisiv a no

I have visions as a 50 year old man
sitting at a small round table outside
of a cafe wathcing the breeze blow
and the leaves fly.

There is a seat next to me—
unoccupied, not because I’m lonely,
but because I have stepped
away for some alone time.

I wonder if this will be a common
occurrence: sitting alone at a coffee
table by myself or inhaling my
decisions with stuttering sighs
and exhaling the fear of not knowing
the rest of my life.

Not a book, a woman, nor a man should
be judged by its cover—
seeming—because a composed and
sound exterior can hide the shifting
landscape of the pages inside—
being.

I have read the book of every day
lately and look in the mirror to see Bill
Murray—running to the book of life to
find that it starts at chapter 26.

Yesterday’s last years gone with fresh
page rips, scarring the inseam.

The book doesn’t even have a back
flap, just “ the now” followed by by blank
pages followed by a literary cliff with
nowhere to fall.

Best not to read the words forming
every minute—ink dropping.  Best not
to birds eye if my body keeps stalling—
body keeps stalling.

“Everything is gonna work out, don’t
worry about it, it’ll be fine” is the
mysterious elixir that flinched eyes,
tense hips, and clenched feet will drink.

Where as “Silence, action, laser focus
and tunnel vision” is the gallon of
water that’s fueled by our concrete
beliefs.

Visions confuse in that you can see
what you see.  What’s there is what is
and what’s not is what isn’t.

The only thing I have to know, need
to know, is does he get up from the table.

Park Bench

On a park bench in the cooling fall of autumn an elderly man sits concerned in Central Park with his eyes glued to his exposed midriff and visible chest hair.  His bottom lip hangs like Bubba Gump, but little do the passing civilians know that this was not only a genetic trait he inherited from his father, Eugene, but also as a result of years and years of dipping on chewing tobacco.  Way back when this man used to play some baseball in his heyday and later on in his career he used to manage some of the great minor league teams down the east coast.  He had many a nickname, a different one on every team.  During the start of his journey in the league as a steely second baseman they called him “Trumpet” because they wondered if his lips could ever fit tightly enough to be able to play one.  In the summer of his career his club called him “Dandy” cause before and after every game he was dressed to the nines; three piece suits with shiny new penny loafers that never seemed to lose their luster.  It might have helped that his name was Sandy, too.  In the final couple of years, when the injuries that seemed to creep up on all the greats had their way with him, they called him “Stubs” because the wear and tear of almost twenty years playing professionally had reduced his legs to atrophic stumps; he was barely mobile and it hurt to run, let alone slide.  Sandy retired as one of the best hitters of all time and earned the respect of all of his teammates and every fan that was lucky enough to see him play.  

Unfortunately, his home life didn’t mirror the incredible things he was able to accomplish on the field.  His life was riddled in sadness.  When he was just 14 years old he lost both of his parents to a horrific car accident.  At the time it had occurred, Sandy was at a friends house practicing his swing.  When he was notified of the news it didn’t seem to make sense.  It still never made sense and for fear of further trauma he elected not to go to the mortuary to say his goodbyes.  The closed casket funeral, despite being full with family friends, colleagues, and neighbors didn’t add the closure that Sandy hoped to receive.  There was something about not being there with them or seeing what had happened that led him to believe that nothing really had happened, or if it did, it would never sink in.  He went to live with grandparents in a far away suburb, but they were getting old, so he often feared at some point he would lose them, too.  When he was 27, in the middle of his prime, when he was putting up some of the biggest numbers the game had ever seen, he met a lady by the name of Nancy, who everyone called “Pants,” and they married after only a couple months of dating.  Their marriage was relatively private, with only about twenty invitees in total, including Sandy’s grandparents who, at that point, were in their mid 90’s.  Sandy was so happy that they were alive and healthy to see him wed.  A year later, his grandparents passed away together in their sleep and in turn left Sandy with no remaining family members of his own.  To make matters worse, Nancy had left him pregnant with their baby, without a note or a word.  He woke up one Saturday morning to find that the drawers were cleared, the closets were half empty, and the brand new toys he had bought for his soon to be child were gone.  He walked around the house, assessed the situation, found an empty seat in the living room and sat down in it.  His feet were cold on the wooden floor.  His deep breaths in and out came and went without so much as a peep.  He was just alone with his stares in his shrunken undershirt that showed the hint of a fattening stomach and his hairy legs that may or may not have looked a little smaller.  

Ten years later after retiring, a strapping, strutting young man was now a limping old-timer and unlike his predecessors he would not take a break from the game that he loved; he went right on to managing.  The attention of playing in a big city never really mattered to Sandy and neither did the pressure that came with the higher expectation to win, but he was never shy to say that he liked the quiet of the smaller cities that fostered the majority of the minor league ball clubs.  To him, the balance of helping a team full of players that would one day play under the bright lights and the calm of ending every night by himself—alone in his tiny home, provided the tranquility of the peace he always loved.  He started way off in the northeast corner of the country and after finding success in each town, winning minor league championships and sending many of his players to the pros, he would move his way on down.  Despite keeping to himself, the towns welcomed him with open arms.  The coffee shops where he became a regular, the quiet little diners that knew the only thing he would ever ordered, and the citizens of the parks that he used to sit at for hours in the day during the offseason.  To a stranger you might think he was grumpy all the time and to the rare person in those towns that might not have known who he was, he or she might flinch in disgust when he would spit some of the chewing tobacco into the brass bottle he always carried.  It didn’t matter, though.  It only took a second for his quiet and deceptively charming personality to endear you to him.  

The game of baseball had always been Sandy’s sanctuary.  The spirit inside the game that lived inside of him never waned and in some ways he always took that for granted, but after years and years of success and watching his young players grow into future all stars and watching up and coming teams that he raised becoming powerhouses, his desire to manage and be around the game he loved began to fade.  All these young boys around him that he had nurtured and raised that were blossoming into grown men started to awaken a deep longing that he had to know the son or daughter he had never known and that had grown up without him.  It was the candle in him that ignited the day his wife told him the news and despite everything that had happened since then, all of the wind storms inside him that blew and blew, the candle continued to glimmer.  One season, after an underwhelming performance in the playoffs, he left quietly into the night after packing his things, and returned to the city that he was raised in by his parents, the city that he played for the majority of his career, and the city that he wished to settle down in.  The day after he arrived he went to go see the doctor that used to work on him in his last years as a player.  It had been so long since he had been in for a check-up.  He didn’t see any reason to believe that he wasn’t healthy.  There was the wear and tear from the game, but that was natural.  After going in for a routine physical, the doctor—a long time friend, told Sandy that he would like to go a step further and reschedule a visit to do some additional tests.  He returned the next day, took the tests, and later in the week when he saw his friend again, the doctor told him some disheartening news:  He had cancer in the mouth.  There was no change of expression on Sandy’s face.  A grumble or two.  He asked, “How long?”  The doctor replied, “It’s hard to say.  A year maybe?  Maybe less.  And it could always be more.”  “That it?” Sandy said, and then left the office without saying another word.  

On a park bench in the cooling fall of autumn, Sandy settled in and sat at his favorite place in Central Park.  He used to love to watch the people go by, the bikers zooming around the bend, the runners chasing another mile, and the families—generations young and old, walking around happily in bliss.  Sandy looked up to the sky to see an endless blue that felt as rich and boundless as the career he played.  He nestled into his seat to get comfortable, to give his legs a rest, and to take the deep, long, relaxing breaths he cherished.  After breathing himself into a deep trance, his eyes latched on to his exposed midriff that showed in the open space made by the constantly shrinking undershirt.  A man and a woman sat down on the bench next to him talking baseball.  Sandy’s ears perked up a little.  

“They say the team’s going to retire his number as well,” the lady started.  “It feels rather fitting after everything he did for the organization”  

“I’m going to have to try and make it.  I remember watching him long ago and absolutely marveling at the things he could do.  Those homeruns?  The plays in center field?” the man followed.  “The Times has written a special on him every day this week.  I read the other day he grew up not knowing his real father.  Apparently the mother left and never told him.”            

“Imagine that,” the lady said.  “How awful.  You wonder if the father ever wanted to find his son, if he’s still alive, anyway.”

After the normal late afternoon chit-chat the man and woman took off for a reservation dinner.  

Meanwhile, Sandy’s eyes welled up with soft, wet tears.  And there they went, streaming down his face one by one, catching his lip, and then falling peacefully to the ground.  The candle inside flickered for a moment.  Flickered and flickered by a harsh internal wind until the flame grew bigger and bigger and bigger…

The Anywhere Express

Despite planning to do several things this Sunday, a day he had looked forward to since the week had started, the morning sun failing to blare through his window like it normally did showed him that the elements had other plans.  He had always kept his curtain open; for one, he liked being able to put the AC on at night (when the curtain was down it became an obstacle for the air to move through) and two, he loved the feeling of going to bed whenever he was able and wake up whenever nature desired him to.  It wasn’t a question of interrupting internal customs, but rather a feeling of waking up when the world saw fit.  He examined his phone—a habitual first action that he was always ashamed of performing—and saw that it was one in the afternoon.  The beginning of his day, which was supposed to be filled with a detox run around the neighborhood, a breakfast consisting of an egg white platter and an exotic fruit bowl was now ruined and his hope of making it to midtown in time for Central Park’s inaugural park wide mediation was dashed.  Normally he would take a shower to clear his mind, but he could hear down the hall that his roommate was already occupying the space.  Sometimes he thought of what factors there were in a person’s life that determined the songs they would sing in the shower.  Everyone knew that your voice sounded the best when the water was running and the sound reverberated off the walls like you were actually someone that could produce that great of noise.  A select few weren’t so lucky, but again, it had to be this person’s select shower playlist.  Dixie Chicks?  Kenny Chesney?  Toby Keith?  Slayer?  Megadeath?  Korn?!  Country music was one thing.  Three country artists in a row was another.  But the transition from country to heavy metal?!  That was like taking everything that was wrong in the world and mashing it together to create one big shit sandwich.  Some southern twangs were sexy—this one wasn’t.  Some people screaming simply hurt the ears—not destroy the eardrums all together.  

OK.  So this house is telling me something.  This day is telling me something.  I need to get out of here, he thought.  Let’s see what the outside world has in store for me.  After grabbing some sunflower seeds and a pack of lemons, he was on his way out the door.  The elevator read “Out of Service—Check back next year” and the man blinked to get the crust out of his eyes, which had to have been the obstruction causing him not read the sign correctly.  Except he looked at the sign again after blinking and saw that it now read “This used to be elevator—It’s 2017—Just Fucking Walk.”  Who the hell did this super think he was?  He would bet his life that he had taken the elevator just last night, when he came home drunk from a party in Canarsie.”  Now that he noticed it, the sign didn’t look like it was plastered on any type of elevator.  It was just white walls.  He couldn’t possibly have been the only one who was disappointed to find out his apartment no longer offered the services of an elevator.  After all, he knew there were a lot of old folks that lived on some of the upper levels.  How were they supposed to go up and down?  Even he needed the elevator for going down the stairs.  He had a couple of knee surgeries a few years ago; walking down was still a struggle.  He slowly descended the first flight to see that there was another sign on the 5th floor, “Using your body sets you free.”  The next floor—“I just spoke to the inventor of the elevator and told him he was the one to blame for obesity.”  The third floor—“I did you a favor—now you don’t need to be scared of dying in an elevator.”  The second—“You can practically see the floor from here.”  And the ground floor read, “If you can struggle to pay my rent you can struggle to climb those steps.”  Jesus Christ, this landlord sounded like a Nazi.  He made a mental note to himself to look at new places somewhere else when he returned later in the day.  His legs were already feeling taxed after doing the dirty work of walking down so many floors.  He even thought he might have felt himself limping.

When he exited his complex he was surprised to find that there were no cars on the street and it was clear he wasn’t the only person who noticed.  “FUCK!” he said.  Looking down the block he could see that there were herds of families also standing like he was with a similar screwed up face at the total absence of street vehicles.  Someone shouted, “CONO!”  Someone else shouted, “PUTAIN!”  An elderly woman yelled, “CAZZO!”  A baby screamed “BEHEN CHOD!”  He wondered if everyone else went through the same process as he did.  Finding out their elevators didn’t work, having to walk down all the steps, only to find out there next dependable means of transportation was missing as well.  The street certainly looked different.  It was certainly more open and several kids were playing in the street, getting wet to the unlocked fire hydrants on one end and playing a mean game of stickball on the other.  Now that he took the time to fully look, there wasn’t a car in sight.  There wasn’t a stoplight on his corner like there once was and there weren’t any cars as far as his eyes could see.  The streets, which used to be filled with the loud shrill honk of horns was a landscape of children laughing, crying, and shouting.  You know…it wasn’t so bad.  

A strange day, he thought.  The manner in which he woke up, the elevator, the complete elimination of automobiles; a strange day, indeed.  On his way to the subway he saw that the main street corner had also changed entirely.  For one, it was clear that cars were no longer in the picture.  This main street, “St. Nicholas” looked like a human metropolis.  Yesterday there were stands solely on the side of the street, but now his neighborhood looked like a Moroccan Medina, a huge bazaar of fruit stands, clothing vendors, furniture artisans, and perfume confectioners.  At this point he wondered if there was even a subway at all.  He slipped and slid, ducked and dodged the newfound human traffic that was on par with the automobile traffic he once knew.  He breathed a great sigh of relief when, after a couple of blocks. he discovered that there was still the subway station that there was before…except, to his dismay, the station was closed because 1 trains weren’t running between 242nd St. and 137th.  He should have known.  Well, at least there was an A train nearby.  On the corner of 181 and Ft. Washington, he entered the station in the hope of finally getting his day started and checking off a couple of the things he had on his list.  Upon first glance, he didn’t notice anything different about the station.  Out of nowhere he was bumped from behind by a couple of masked hooligans, who jumped over the turnstiles, while being pursued by a couple of cops who had guns in their left hands, simultaneously clutching a couple glazed Dunkin Donuts in their right, and wearing what appeared to be pig noses.  Wait.  Wait, what?  They weren’t wearing pig noses.  They had pig noses.  And pig tails!  Not the hair style, either.  Literally, each one of them, had pig tails.  The only reason he was around long enough to notice was right after the masked men fled the scene, the cops found that they weren’t athletic enough to jump over the turnstiles.  Oh, they tried, but after fifteen seconds, they quit and buckled over, exhausted.  He stared at the two cops, or pigs, or whatever they were, and slowly swiped his subway card to get through to the other side, all the while staring at the cops with an incredulous look like, “You guys can’t even carry a train pass?” before braking their gaze and heading to the downtown side below.  Steps.  Steps had indeed replaced the famously tall escalators that used to stand where he stood.  He thought of reporting his landlord and super to the authorities.  This was now a public matter and his knees ached to think of all the steps below.  But he managed.  

The A train came within minutes.  If there was any doubt that something in the world was terribly wrong, the man now had all the evidence he needed.  He watched the cars pass by.  Whoosh.  Whoosh.  Whoosh.  There was no one in the train to be seen.  He couldn’t help, but shake his head.  The doors opened, he hesitated, and then entered and was welcomed with the familiar breeze of a blue line car.  He sat down.  The seat was cold to the touch.  

“The next stop on this train will be—.”

An arm stopped the doors from closing just in time to let a woman with frizzy brown hair, caramel skin, bright green eyes, a nose ring, a crop top, navy blue capris, and converse sneakers in the train.  She stopped to sit right across from him.  

“The next stop on this train will be…”

He said, “Where do you wanna go?”

and she replied, “After what I’ve seen the past 30 minutes…anywhere.”

“Thank you for boarding the Anywhere Express.  The next stop on this train will be Anywhere.”

He looked at her and she looked at him.

Please stand clear of the closing doors.