I speak candidly off the record to those who ask.

when it comes time for petty own thoughts, But.

Why does a person live a life, without living their life?

My stomach twists and flops with obligatory anxieties, living life unfulfilled creates nothing but a desire to be killed.

The 30 second-intervals of the smoke detector beeps

Squeezing myself out of the egg, and we're off

Five minutes is all it takes, then I'm up on a broken-boarded bed.

I think about nothing, and everything - desires to sing, endless dreams far-removed from these waning streams

One morning, or afternoon - a guiltless charles' the only to know

The egg will crack, in a cold-empty room

And, then through; no longer a-chiefed

One step toward the moon, finally allowing the lovers swoon, and all before the stroke of noon.


We Are The Faceless

A growing, faceless crowd continues to be swept under the illuminated rug of most cities.

On any given night an estimated 80,000 people are homeless in L.A., and before you check the figures, think about what you're trying to dismiss through your action to dispute. What difference does it make if it's 80,000, 2 million or 15? Americans are homeless and I'm at fault for not doing more.

And so are you.

Personal triumph, self-deceptive apathy, and a greed-centered society have citizenry more emotive about the Kardashians than with real people like Joe; a once-proud husband, teacher and LA-resident who now stands in soup lines, and spends most evenings huddled under freeway ramps.

Are we that heartless, or are we just too busy? While efforts go to making our lives productive, perhaps even volunteering a few hours of our month in helping the weary and ever-increasing homeless population; we don't do enough. Our philosophies and tactics of wealth enhancement have us looking long-term at unforeseen challenges - and even worse - our own retirement, while the injustices of our time are tragic, and on our doorstep. A disregard toward helping others has been created out of our need to milk efforts for higher profits, sometimes even in the name of charity, but what we're missing is the point that these pursuits are wasteful and short-sighted.

The other day I talked to Joe, under the Sunset Blvd. bridge on Silver Lake. He had been a teacher, had gone to college and done work toward his master's degree. But when collection agencies for hospital bills came calling after his wife died, following a long battle with cancer, and he'd lost his job due to cuts within a school district that graduates barely more than 40 percent of its students, he was forced to live on the street.

Joe, like so many other faceless Angelenos and Americans, begs while we brush past, too busy and too focused on the future to realize the present from which we're running. Cities of people are starving in a country still celebrating record corporate profits, while boasting of great humanitarian efforts and balanced opportunities. If that doesn't bother you or have you scratching your head with consideration, then your focus and motivation is probably wrong.

For those who are already helping our brothers and sisters; great! Do more. For those of you who don't or are unwilling: what is wrong with you? There are many ways to help, even if it means simply stopping on a street corner to talk to someone like Joe - putting a face on the present-day faceless and giving you an induced-perspective of what really matters.


Why do I weep with red wine, while others postier and smile? Is it not the sound of silence, or the knowing that tonight is a lonely one, as the one before and the one tomorrow?

Fortuitous is the foundation of relational attraction and knowing; they know no bounds in the mind of me. Or the one who've come before. And while I romance the ideas of those they don't understand, they sit in amazement at their own lives. Lives of peace. Lives of true romance; of love and of abounding joy. I could write for ages about how the condition of not knowing is greater than the condition of feeling; of understanding and of true desire to love.

But I won't. And while Shaw criticizes, I sit in silence; dull to the world and to myself, for my own inaction and the misunderstanding of a world that is too caught in peace than love.

And, why shouldn't it be?


LA blog

I'll get back to this at some point, but for now check out a new endeavor here: http://inaboutown.blogspot.com/

I'm trying to keep up with the events surrounding a move to LA that is now past being, 'in the works' and is reality, instead.



A changing time brings a wave of disturbing newness.

When we've made a plan we can't recount. It is essential to stick to plans and to follow through, or we'll lose all legitimacy to ourselves and to others.

And that's where I find myself. Unaware of the future, but surely at contempt for the prospect of failure. But, while failure seems all but impossible in this world of second and third chances, I can't convince myself that everything will be fine. Perhaps it's an acquired attitude. Regret for past failures.


It's the feeling that little has been accomplished with the tools and talents acquired and blessed by God. I've yet to publish a story, or a book of poetry. And, in my undying ability to create words of thought, to lance the fat from the crap rivals sow, I've not been able to use my own whit to hunker down and establish what I'm meant to do.

Perhaps, all else shall fail if I lay, head back in a canoe, on the river of my dreams. For, when a man finds his voice, all will try to quiet him. But he must not let them. All things seems impossible, until the man takes hold and discovers what it is he is meant to be. And, I've done that. But do I have the know-how and the angst to follow through with producing what I should?

I must, or fear will continue to conquer and life with become more drab.

Fear has become my life. I live in fear, moment to moment, and it is reality, which has become the true fiction. I’m afraid of everyone and regret pours over me. There are no fancy words and/or phrases to describe its clutch upon my heart and soul. I’ve made big plans and must stick to them, but I’m afraid I’m destined to fail amidst my inability to be productive due to the dread. I can’t keep people close, because I’m at fear of my affect on them, deepening my regret and their angst for departure. Anxiety for daily activities I seemingly can’t perform, leads to overwhelming regret and depression within, to fear of the future and of the past; killing hope and reckoning my life to tattered shreds of contempt for myself.

I wish I knew the way to hope. I’ve tried God and when I disagree or can’t decide what I believe, I feed my furnace of regret. I have tried to keep friends, but can’t because, my dread has spread to them. Music has no ring, colors are grey and the prospect of new adventures brings nothing, but anxious worry.

I want out of this nightmare, to a place where things are easy and can be completed. Where I feel as if I matter. And where I feel smart again, and able to stand on my own two feet. To be a champion of the day, happy with whatever successes are attainable and not greedy to be the best in all fields, just good enough for someone else and for myself.


I've told people, and yet I fail myself: don't try to like something you don't.

It just doesn't make sense to the inner most reaches of whatever it is that we have which decides what works and what doesn't to the inner most reaches of whatever it is that we have.

I'm also learning to keep as little attachment to things as possible, psychoanalyze situations before they happen, prep for them and you'll be free to do what you want to do with your life.

Attachments are misguiding and they retort nothing in regard to happiness. Let your mind wander, create and you'll find guidance in all you need.

Saltine crackers and budweiser make a good lunch, especially when the cup on the patio - trapped by the wind and the flanking fence - won't stop it's rolling about.


Seeing Nothing and Saying Nothing

So, it goes like this:

These guys come up to us on the street; we're smoking cigarette after cigarette, talking about Middle East peace resolution and why things are named what they're named, like Kentucky blue grass, for instance.

We're just talking and they approach and the one guy, kind of short and square-eyed; you know what I mean, right? Square-eyed? Almost, like a cartoon character, the short guy, dressed in a blue turtle neck, dark-blue-faded-at-the-knee blue jeans and a worn red toboggan, opens his palm and says: "take a look."

So I say: "Look at what," to him, peering down and then looking at both the short guy and his friend, a fiendish looking bloke with a square head, black-rimmed glasses and an itch to be somewhere.

And I meant it, to what? There was nothing there.

So, he said look again and so I did. Still nothing.

I turned to my friend and I said, nothing.

I guess some people see somethin', but I don't when there's nothin'. And, even worse, some people talk about nothin' when it's just that.


Cormier Plage

We took time to see the city of Cap Haiten and the rural areas outside the city. To the entertainment of everyone else - and myself - I opted to ride in the bed of the truck most the time, to both snap photos and take advantage of something not allowed in our over-lawed society.

Two Fridays ago, Fr. Andre took the three of us, as well as Bob and Ann; a couple from Montreal, staying at the orphanage simultaneously, to the beach. Taking the high road - and the bumpy one - we etched our way through the northern stretches of Cap Haiten, into the highlands and further and further from the 'somewhat' paved streets of the bustling city. Climbing into the mountains, we snaked our way passed 'tap-taps' and motorbikes, down and out of ravines within the road, sculpted by the rain water draining down the cliffs.

We passed and people stared; mainly at me, villages and streams where women washed clothes before setting them on the cactus bushes nearby in the morning sun to dry. Nearing the apex of the climb, I noticed a break in the mango, spruce and banana trees and then, the immense blue. The next turn brought full view of the Caribbean sea and a lone sailboat, beat by the waves, some of which crashing and spraying the rocky coast.

We made our descent, very slow now on the increasingly windy and thin road. As we got closer two trucks loaded with 10 people in each bed were closing in to our bumper. Turning the corner - a clear blind spot - Fr. Andre honked and as he did the two trucks passed us, missing motorcycles by mere feet and another truck, which in passing bumped driver-side mirrors with ours.

We soon arrived at Cormier Plage, a resort of sorts. We spent the day at the beach, in the warm sea and I got sunburned to the point I'm dealing with it as I write.


Days have passed and I have yet to make a concrete assumption as to what my trip to Haiti meant; to me and to my mission for the betterment of those I feel charged to help.

The details are immense of dissimilarity to the conditions we find as norms in this country, to the landscape of Haiti. But oddly I found myself mere hours into the adventure sympathizing not with the lack-of, which Haiti is victim, but to the access-to that I find so paralyzing, for which the people of this country fall victim.

The children, desperate for love and starved for parents having either died of natural causes, lost in the mix or in the 2010 earthquake, could grasp the heart of any person for which they came in contact. I found myself pitying them, but thankful their conditions are as they have been placed.

Father Andre; a gentle, caring but enthusiastically intelligent man has started two schools, the orphanage of the children I am speaking, is pushing evermore to give back, as he was given as one of Haiti's own lost children. Raised by nuns, educated in Haiti and the United States, Fr. Andre came back to Haiti only to return to the streets, pulling children from the dusty and poorly-paved roads of Cap Haiten and starting an orphanage to house those not much unlike him as a child.

I watched in their eyes as they played, as we gave treats - a single Oreo to each, in one case - and I saw something lost in the eyes of many. While we have found ways to destroy the bonds we are blessed and/or lucky enough to have, depending on your perspective and/or assumption, these children truly hold each other close; brothers and sister's not of birth, but of a common upbringing. One night I watched the oldest, with a plate of the leftover rice and beans from lunch, systematically scoop and allocate even portions to his 19 'brothers' and 'sisters', taking care not to miss anyone. As he did, one of the smallest girls did her best to mouth the scoop of food, while I cupped my hand under her mouth to catch the bits that fell.

The children were not shy, but boisterous and assured in their need to be held, holding our hearts at the same time. The first night, we sat at the picnic-style tables in the living room, watching the fuzzy 12-inch television, as one sat on my knee, his legs rapped around my right leg locking in and holding on, surely to take advantage of closeness of which he is starved.

We would play to exhaustion, while the children became more energized as the mid-80s heat and sun beat down on my back in their small play yard. And then we'd stop, I'd sit and five or six of them would pile on my lap and shoulders and back, pulling my hair rubbing my whiskered face and asking me questions in their native Creole, I'd try best to understand.

I learned to love them without a curriculum of understanding or without trying.

One particular boy, his parents having died in the catastrophic earthquake last year, attached to my hip and every time I'd come down the steps from our quarters, his eyes would lock into mine and his arms would shoot to the sky, begging for me to pick him up, hold him and sometimes toss him in the air. I spent hours watching him, when I didn't hold him as he etched on a magnadoodle, and in my moleskin. "Ecris, Ecris," he say softly to me when I'd bring my notebook to scribble down observations. I'd let him draw and oftentimes, he'd be practicing cursive figures of vowels, i noticed the teacher had left on the broken chalk board in the rudimentary classroom/play area.

Yes, my time in Haiti was not for me, but for the children. But it was a rejuvenation of sorts and a time to see, as I've already assumed, that there are innumerable perspectives to experience.



a ways from home. but, will be further soon.

a bit of jerk, sometimes.

hungry, most all the time.

a slob, but only when i'm alone.

radical in my beliefs and style.

not trying to be anyone but myself; whoever that is.

searching for answers to questions i can't read or write down.

not looking for help.

institutionalized in grief.

fed well by societies requirement.

taught in Thoreau and believe in nothing.

trying to disappear when i don't answer your calls.

155 pounds of uncompromised uncertainty.

disgusted with the way of life of others.

no relation to you, though.

moving to California

in May



I watched the circus roll through town.

I saw it through my dining room window, the circus I mean. On wheels, they were, moving quickly in line, down the street. And then, they were gone. Out of the sight of my dining-room window.

So, I looked down at the snow. And the house across the shared-apartment yard with the neighbors dogs shit everywhere. i don't really mind it, I just noticed it was there. Just because I acknowledged it, doesn't mean I mind it. I don't mind very much; I should be easy to get along with, but I'm not because people don't know that I don't mind much.

I thought about going to the store to buy groceries and didn't. I don't like buying groceries. Food costs too much and I can eat what food I have. I don't like paying as much as they ask for food. I'd steal it if I could, but I'd get caught. I'm terrible at stealing food.

Seeing things is hard when you're locked inside all day long. Well, not really locked, but closed in all day long. I don't mind it though. But I mind not writing. And you have to see things outside to write about them. Don't write about things if you haven't seen them. I need to see things, so I can write about them. I can't be locked inside all day long, well, not locked but closed inside...all day long.

Where'd the day go?

There’s a hippie in a dead shirt and red toboggan, smoking a cigarette and talking to himself, strolling anxiously through the melting snow, down College avenue.

And that’s the problem with people; they’re always looking down at their feet when they’re walking, disregarding what they should be looking at. So what if you slip and fall down; you’ll see more that way. Feel more.

Is is creek or a river. I don’t really know. Some people say a creek. Some people say a river. I don’t really know.

I’m not waiting on the red light to turn, they are. I’m walking. I don’t wait for lights to change when I’m walking. I just walk.

I get caught looking at my feet when I’m taking a walk as well. I catch myself looking at them, as they are getting more and more soaked. I need shoes with better soles, but I don’t care about better soles. I only care about fashion. That’s why I wear sneakers. They aren’t fashionable. I hate fashionable shoes.

Running homeward to write down my thoughts, I fear I will lose them. I run like I’m going to lose them. I get in the door, peel off my soaked shoes and I’ve lost them.

There’s a blue shopping cart down there in the river or creek, whatever you want to call it, you can call it. I call it a shopping cart.

I take walks to see things. I want to move to see things so I can have more to write about. That’s where the writing comes from, from seeing things. They say I haven’t looked enough and should stay here, see things and write about them. I say, you haven’t looked either, or you’d see that there’s nothing to see. That’s why I’m moving, because I’ve looked and there’s things to see there. I need things to see, to write about.

People seem to be smiling a bit more today. People always smile when something is changing. It feels good to change. I like to see change. Stagnancy is scary. Humans are scary. Humans are, for the most part, stagnant.

I can be whatever I wish to be. The possibilities are endless. You should have endless possibilities, as well. But you choose not to. That’s why I’m leaving to see things.

To decide if it’s a river or a creek.

To not wait on the lights to change.

To not have to have soaked feet on a slush-covered sidewalk.

To wear my dead shirt and my red toboggan.

To make it home, not have to run and not forget things I want to write about.

To not be stagnant.

To not be human.

a rocked gut
fly-over without displacement and/or acknowledgment

a nasty disputation and a violent wind sweeping under a dress

a rustling rodent, striving for warmth and we have much
settling in alone or

come now, pray the prayer they've taught you to pray

of all is understanding and faith in reason
when there is none.


The news seems dead as does the surrounding landscape
but we press on into the darkness ahead

no one really knowing what's lying in our way.

Why is it our way, I ask myself
don't ask so many questions, he said once

You'll be much happier with the answers if you don't ask for them
they come easy
and free.

They said you'd be here, you said
I say 'no' but, she said
that i was coming and I haven't made my mind up
because I don't care.

Deliberate actions speak enough and the children run, even when told not to.
into the street and to the neighbors porch, you don't trust.

What are you going to do now, they ask
my indecision scraped on my forhead like a scaring wound emblazoned by choice and not

I don't answer but let the actions fortold of, do the talking
while they keep

Chicago night wind

I run to the subway but,
it waits anyway for me and everyone else.

I sit amongst strangers, either too tired to smile or not caring

A young man stumbles in soiled pants and tattered camouflaged jacket, asking for a nickel
when i'm sure he wants much more.
As i do.

We take the red-line 15 stops to Howard, exit and start all over again, running
and yet, the train still waits.

I step outside to the uninvited cold wind and the snow starts falling.
I've got a mile and a half to walk and no one is around but the fleeting train and passing cars.
I pass the cars as I walk, or they pass me
They see me but I hardly see them; smoking a cigarette one honks and I say 'thank you.'

The snow is cold and I don't wear proper shoes, as the ice seeps through the cracks in my worn soles and my soul aches with the thought of it all. I
step back down onto the highway and make headfall toward my destination
before another round of cars coming streaming by unseen and hardly heard.

I'm here for that one, I tell the man and he throws me a key.

I miss it, but I don't miss the chance to feel bitter on a blustery night.


Finding the Time

When Alvin asked me to pick up his 'billfold' from the iced-over drive way, i thought: "A literal move!"

Never properly prepared for life on the ice, the human race invented slip-on shoes and I have embraced them. They wear more quickly, but they only cost $10.

Alvin greeted me again today: "Young man, thank you for getting my billfold," as he chipped with a spade at the 3 inches of death at his feet.

"You're welcome, sir," I said.

Mr. Mays (names have been changed to protect the homeless) then started talking about how he'd climbed over the fence - in his apparent feeble state - only to slip drop the wallet in hand, err, rather, billfold; before slipping and leaving it. Luckily I was there to help him out or he would have had to call the fire department.

I have walked around the block twice, spent countless hours searching for cars and talked to people in all places not here amongst the Siberian-esque conditions. Or is there just a lot of snow and chilly temps in Northern Russia?

I'm afraid my music has annoyed the neighbors due to its inconsistency. But we all know when a song hits you right, you have to peck at the volume button to raise it past the point you already know doesn't exist.

The only thing that has remained the same is that I've listened to Modest Mouse's 'Dramamine' and Radio Dept's 'Clinging to a Scheme' album about 27 times.

At present The Knife greets those in Suites A and C.

However, amongst the anxious upheavals, airplanes flying overhead and my kicking the chair-frozen to the ground, perhaps spraining my largest toe on my right foot, not to mention nearly slipping and breaking my own feeble body, I've gotten quite a bit of nonsensical writing done.

I try to be happy with it, but what fills moleskins is 'for no one' and is literal illustration of that which attempts to seep, sometimes does, but mostly remains locked up in the inner clutches of the soul.

As the sun sets, i take note of the strange color of Alvin's house and the birds that aren't present upon his red roof.

An pink (faded red) piece of tape tied upon the top of an electric-metered stick, flies with the cold wind as if someone running to battle, flag in hand, got trapped under the ice.

The lights are off and the furnace kicks in, though I keep it low because who needs heat anyway?

I think as I slid a few feet, readjusted, slid again and then tip toed in my black Urban Outfitter slip-ons, that this could be my final few days stuck within the clutching of the aftermath with blizzard-like conditions. Warmer weather is on the horizon, and though I don't complain as those who choose to live here forever, I will say I don't like the inability to sit outside whenever I want and read or jot things into said moleskin.

I mused about driving to the store to buy some more food, salt for the sidewalks and cheeto's but thought better of it.

I do need to cook something, eat and take out the trash - risking my neck and my warm feet - so I must go.

Have a good night everyone.

In two days

I've scraped for hours
eaten things

drank heavy
and left thoughts
of you in the snow

I see
out my bedroom window

Days and Nights

'So, where does the story end,' she asked?
When the nights come cold
an answer is waiting
for how the
sun sets on the days
it precedes


I've seen all this country has to see
and I've
seen naught, but
And you don't see
but, look away when i approach.

'Don't be an ass,' you say.

We wind the streets unfolded and down until we reach the

Where'd the year go, so fast and slow as the rain falls where it's
not meant. The time has come for slow cars and even slower minds.

And, you're neither, but a dream unescapable in the daylight.

afternoon naps and restless nights; we're meant for neither.

every writer has one good novel in them is bullshit and you know it
focus is waning
and this cigarette is too short and too long.

they had it in for me and you never will.
Oh baby can't you see.

and, but knows nothing
falsehood in the life of saints
truth in the lives of manics
kiss the death goodbye and arise to the truth
one knows.

A hairy belly

Lift your shirt and do you have a hairy belly?

A small pooch is nothing if it's not a leaping gestation.

Are you ready for rejection, non madame

Finish your tea and get out! East we'll go if we can stave the cold. West we'll go if we're not ready.

You're down and I am too, why not shoot for the moon?

kiss death goodbye and live.

A man paces, in anxiety of brilliance, but doesn't know what to seek. Feed that itch, young man
let it

Eating he goes out, and not knowing why.

Why then, he asks himself. To find what you're looking for is nothing but an overarched struggle of resistent to truth and you're gone.

If only for a moment and their we
and neither knows what to make of it.

I ask and you don't tell.

I observe and try to soak in years, as they're only moments.

I know you'll be gone and apart we'll be the most of this life and yet
remain seperate

I need you so much closer, exit through the entrance we've created and come back to us in an instant. you said just write and so I

I'm sure we'll be and you're still not sure, I dwell and you
repeat your unobservance to our truth in love.

"Calm down," they say. "Don't go," says another.

They don't know you and the light of justice on your brow. We spent so many times knowing and denied.

I was an idiot then. But no longer longing.

There'morethana life tolive

The pain of the artist is the escape before the entrance.

naked truth and sacrament.

I've become what I want, now take and don't let go.

no one has the ideas I've. and no


The rain falls deep and so do you.

Chardonnay and cigarettes.
Slowing down
my mind
that's not yet yet defiled.

"You're so warm," you told me, i remember as i hold my hand out from the porch wondering with it freeze on me. Surely not.

One sentence. One word can mean eternity.

I step off and try to slide, embrace childhood lost and stumble; making sense.


Matthew, Oh dear

Unpredictably good.

That would be the observation of even the most reserved and yet, unexperienced of the avant-garde electonic music scene. Matthew Dear, at the Talbott Street venue was anything but underwhelming.

Playing much from his - and his band's - latest album 'Black City' the tone was dark, as were the outfits. No one, in this venue, or even me expected such a glorious representation of the concept album several Indie-electro fans have raved about.

Prior to their engagement in Europe, starting Wednesday in Amsterdam, the tour took one last stop in Indianapolis of all places to a crowd, I found, to be uninformed of Dear and/or his latest release.

Sunday, normally reserved for drag shows at the Indy venue, witheld an assault of originial and seemingly brilliant orchestration by Dear and his bandmates who I believe to be releasing a new sound amongst a midst of regurgitated nonsense.

Playing much from their latest release, based on a concept story of the so-called 'Black City', the band played the title song, along with: 'I can't feel' 'You put a smell on me' and 'Monkey'. The setting and venue played well to the fashionable Dear and the sound was fantastic, if not, better than on the album. The performance even made the concept a bit more believable to those of us who have listened intently and begged for a live performance.

It is always good to land upon a show that overwhelms as few do anymore, and leaving, talking to the casual passersby, many were taken aback at the artistry they had just witnessed.

I encourage a listen, if you haven't heard. But, keep in mind this is a band worth seeing up close and encouraged by the originality of the sound few have been able to conjure in these dark days of music originality.


"Feast your eyes on this!"

On, what. There's nothing in reality when the disillusionment of fact becomes truth and
we're no where
but further
down than where we started.

The sensations of sound

The clapping of hands and stomping of feet
lives to hollow ghosts of individuals
who seek truth but don't recognize
it when they perceive

Oh, the thumping sound of the heart as you near a climax of doubt

a bit of silence, worse

and, the stream of you're mind on paper is all we have as we hug
who we were
and what
we've yet to become.

Are you a dream, dear
where do you go, when i don't but

I see you're eyes and that's all sometimes and it worries me you do the same but
you don't
and i'm lost alone

would it be alright if I stayed in the car for a while and joined
you, when you decide

you play that chord again and again
and the sounds are
trapped but are peerless through the key hole

I can't sleep at all and you're


let me in,
dear I'll stay true

sometimes i wish you knew, the faults of the one you choose but I don't let it fell your truth
and the hush you give
to the beast underneath
and yet,

so much more less than the
love of


Psychology calls it paranoia. I call it life.

Travel as routine is numbing. And so was the frigidity of 5th avenue beneath my feet, making my way away from Central park and toward my well-passed lunch.

I had spent a good portion of the morning/early afternoon at the Museum of Modern art, oddly scared of what I saw; not enjoying a minute, but taking advantage of the $10 student-discounted-entry rate to the museum I usually love.

So there I was, cold and my pants constantly drooping, requiring I pull them up every block - in my mind - worried people behind dressed in NY's best fashion were offended.

Halal - street meat vendors were every two blocks, so I stopped and partook. The young man working the booth struggled to understand when I said I wanted 'lamb and rice', but, was finally able to decipher my thick-Midwestern accent and give me what I wanted. With, a side of pita.

After digging through his pockets, asking the adjacent street-art dealer for a couple dollars, I said it's okay and paid $8 for something I was promised at $6.

Crossing the street looking at my iPhone, disregarding the overly anxious and judgmental cabbies, I made my way to Rockefeller center to hope for a break in the overcast-reality of my minds-eye.

I sat - alone - on one of the circular-iron benches, peeled back the foil rim of the take-away box the Halal vendor had given me, and began devouring my lunch. Surprisingly, it's always very good and filling.

Becoming more aware of the surrounding crowd, camera shots and ice-skaters 50 feet from where I sat, I heard a large sigh from the crowd, clapping, laughing and then systematic 'hooray's'.

"This guy just proposed!"

"And she said yes!"

I couldn't have felt more departed from the whole of the tourists and vacationers. Honestly, who goes to NYC for a weekend in mid-January?

This guy does.

Or, rather, 6 hours.

So, I tried to stomach the enthusiasm of the churning crowd surrounding, but soon my mind began to run and my throat became dry. I watched as a young-Asian couple set down their coffees next to me, from the nearby coffee shop to the East of the ice-skating rink, disregarded them and then headed to watch the the newly-engaged couple in their victory lap of love.

They left their coffees, I thought. I worried. I considered drinking the closest one because at that moment, my throat really began to scream for liquid and the rice-lamb mixture began to creep downward.

I stood, after I had shuffled the rest in, and began to panic as the last bits of rice seemed stuck in my throat.

"What will I do if I begin choking?"
"Will anyone know who to call?"
"Maybe I should leave my phone open to my emergency contacts."
"What of my backpack, my company internet card, my laptop?"
"My camera.."
"If I end up in hospital, the van will be left past 7:30 p.m. and there will be a large fine to get it out!"
"Why do the pigeons get so close, but don't go for help?"
"If someone calls an ambulance, as the rice is stuck, how will I pay for the hospital bills to come?"
"I forgot to turn down the heat at the condo in Indianapolis."
"Is this move, really going to work if I have hospital bills from a choking incident in New York?"

My mind raced and the rice did not. I squinted toward the sky and thought: oh God, please let me get enough saliva to wash this down before I suffocate, either from the sanguine rice or the over-excited tourists, who'd probably regard me as a faking-homeless man and kick me to the gutter of E. 52nd street.

At that moment I got it in me to swallow and I was fine; well, from a physical side.

I thought for a moment about looking at the ice-skaters and did, only to see the Zamboni cleaning the ice for another go-around of over-priced-clichéd excitement.

Oh, to be a tourist in NYC on a cold-January day. My feet were cold and so was my mood.

What the hell was Frank Sinatra even singing about anyway? He probably didn't even write the damn song.

No, after looking, he didn't.


I watched you, watching for me

For more than 10 minutes before you saw


You smiled and ran away from your lost glance to


Where does this feeling come from and how can two be separate from all and want to share so much?

A red wheel barrel, a ship bound for all ports, we’ll read

Blankets and soup

Hence the feeling of truth in your grip

I don’t have to explain to anyone

Hemingway was right.

You asked me if I could love

Your attention begs my understanding

And, yes I do

True fruits of divinity in a person are impossible

They say

But they never met you

Or rather; us.

I’ll wait as long as it takes and I pray you the same

In a matter of time youll let me speak to your soul with my actions

And use little words but

Stay, softly

And we’ll find ourselves where we never thought possible and


With be a gift neither of us foresaw or imagined we’d deserve

We’ll roll amongst the tide and beg for one last kiss with our eyes


And do it all again the next day.

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