draft one--Brooklyn

Morning bicycle rides through southeast Brooklyn,

On broken concrete and glass

Through old neighborhoods where families reside in the same old townhouse

 older tenement apartments  stacked with hipsters already late for the morning commute

The pungent smell of a fish market,  butchers down in Canarsie,

 Dirty Remsen Avenue, with fast cars like a highway

  but slow street traffic lights

On this street, I bike on the sidewalk,

Thread   between students in Charter School Uniforms,

Mothers covering unkempt morning hair with scarves or bandannas

Men on morning routes for the electrical company

Fast Food stores already open, always open.

Reaching the corner of Remsen and Farragut,

 I am two minutes late on the dot

Sweaty from the ride

Ready for the  breakfast left molding on my  kitchen counter.

 Daytime is overworked teachers, social workers, janitors,

And the lilting jangle of Caribbean Accents

Life in not-yet famous parts of Brooklyn

My Home State, In One Line.

"West Virginia is so nice. The Taco Bell girl cared so much about my night"

Circular Waltz

Turn on the TV,
pour a glass of red wine,
a heavy-sigh cleans the slate for happier days.

Passing silent after silent afternoon
Would have loved, a year ago,
this place to call our own.

Door creaks in time with the passing Q train,
it used to be my favorite.
Now, any amount of travel promises twinging anxiety.

There are ghosts next door,
leering forms in past and present participle
ghosts in the corners of the psyche.

When will these blue days end.

Two months of silence, amidst a last triumphant finale of  consistence uprooting.  Finally, the Runaway is Reformed.

I live in a rather large apartment in Brooklyn. Prospect Lefferts Gardens. Right by the park.

Work is scarce and hard to come by. My father is sick.  Occasionally, morning heaviness hits, and voices whisper that the effort required to get out of bed is overrated.

Overall, those mornings are few and far between. They are punctuated by urgent whispers-- guilting me into a morning run. With blood pumping sufficiently well, it is hard to hear even the most insistent whispers of my worthlessness.

There usually something to do. An appointment to make. A song to write. A bar to try. It keeps me busy.  But something is gone; it's that ruthless insistence to show my work. To say "Look at me!"
I'd rather just live and do the things that keep me living. After learning very little in my life, I finally learned that this is the most difficult and important part of existence.

New York, perhaps, is not the best place for that sentiment. But it is where I am now. And there is still growth to be found here, lessons to be learned, paths that will ultimately lead me back to the quiet comfort of books, trees. Finally, the pursuit of a humble existence.

In the meantime, I'll try not to be angry at this city. It is always For Sale. I just wasn't looking hard enough before.

And now, there is a voice combating the sadness, saying that life is worth living, even when it is so incredibly hard.  That I am good and kind and smart, even when I feel hollow.  So there are things to admire. There are ways to be happy, although I am unsure how to making a living in this city.

I suppose this is happiness, even if it doesn't always feel that way.