The Beginning

Non ti vedo da cosi tanto tempo

I woke to biting rain in New York City.

I love rain.
I love the sound of rain.
I love the release of rain.

Similar to crying.

We all need to cry.

No one to cloud my brain.
No one to confuse my heart.
No one to abandon my pussy.

I felt at ease.

The frigid slinky mizzle insisted I stay put
...in my bed

surrounded by books—art—flowers—all my curios in place—
thoughts of desire.

What do I desire... ?

The Invite

The moonless night presented an invite.

Taking a cool mist walk home from the festivities
I thought ...
“What a fabulous party! A perfect mix of pretty people (well maybe one or two were ugly). No moody party-poopers.”

Yummy hor d’oeurvres.
Fine wine.
Fancy cocktails.
The host was strutting about peacock style...
winking introductions.
Surprise!

A brutta facia’s head dove down under a proper Viennese lady’s pesca tabacchiera spread legs.

Festa a base di sesso!
A subtle orgia.

A boudoir reimagined...
dimmed lit bricked chamber
crimson silk drapes floating about
candy colored glass bowls condom filled.

Silver sparkly disco ball shining upon an adult playground of hunger ache...

I Vouyer-ed

...From the doorway
sesso sesso sesso

bangingsuckingkissingsmackingpullinggrunting even howling... the racket got on my nerves
there was no one with whom I desired to play.

I sauntered into nowhere
I demolished caviar
I downed Sancerre
I split
sneaking Thievery style...
lasting love a malady.

“Is there anyone I have to have?”

I strolled snails pace
white chalky cold stained streets
cruised garbage ridden paths leading to secretive lives packed in 19th century buildings.

Blue-black witching hour fairytale:

“The streets belonged to me, Queen of the West Village.” Tremendous stories conjured... juggernaut peeping the lit windows encompassing stranger’s private lives.
Real people.
The NYC struggle is palpable... yet so attractive.

The Master of Games

The frigid air stung my exposed cheeks.

I was “Mary Tyler Moore” alive! Crochet beret tossed in the air...

a fashionista winter winner (black cashmere navy fox trimmed coat) warmed me ...
a hip pocket vibration
rattled me out of my royal fantasy
startled my delicate musings.

The Master of Games pinged me.
Game changer.

Sadness mixed with fine wine.
I began obsessing.

“Who really loved me ? Does loved exist? Once you loved someone is it perpetually present in some hidden corner of your heart, souk soul, being ? If not does that mean you never loved them?”

Oy, I was pontificating! To myself.

The Push

And before I knew it...
I took a topple...
on my knees prayer-like poised on a gritty crooked sidewalk.

Splat!

Water fall cascading face flat down
a bottle cap beneath my nose.

Lying snaked parallel to my favorite triangle of a park.
A thoroughfare where I Sunday plop enjoying the crazy humans of my city while sipping an overpriced oat cappuccino.

A jelly in the center was stuck in my throat ... I strained to mute the damn thing but it oozed.
High pitch escaped from my bowels.
I felt sporca.
Physically I’m immaculate.
But emotionally a sewer.

I was Bruised.

My graffiti scribbled heart illuminated the filth on Hudson.

Fantasies

That night in the sendal soft caverns of my plushness I squiggled inched weaved and crawled like a silk worm lulling myself to a climatic sleep.

My last thought,
“Fantasies don’t always translate to reality.”

I fell off to another dimension.
Tears dripping on stained glass.

My dreams were infused with The Master of Games.
“No Master No Games!”

I read once about a Japanese poet/philosopher that said:
“If you dream of someone, they’re dreaming of you.”
It’s soul related.

Soul.

Well that’s a concept—The Soul—That shit deserves its own marquee in bright Burlesque dressing room make-up mirror lights (say that three times fast).
Ta-da!
My soul hurts... for some nourishment.

La mia Anima

How could he have a voice that’s sandpaper gruff
yet
soft like a baby kitten?
Getting my pussy wings
flapping...
for him my ticker and cunt are one.

Hence, ”Please Shakespeare tell us about the wildfires scorching oceans of velvet couches.” (I plagiarized myself)

My Soul?
Pinging sensations of emptiness.

I’m climbing rickety stairs towards a musty cluttered room with a rotted bar.

No one cares about My Soul.
I have admirers who care
about other parts of me.

“Care about”—another winning phrase that’ll send you to a psych ward if pondered.

There’s more but that’s it, for Now.

The... The Now
Ta-Da

A Sartre Nausea trounces my digestion.
Unrequited mad sexual crushes are ruining my life.

Love and Sex... whirlpools struggling watery wit thoughts.

Every noise sound look stare odor smell touch feel taste sip
my senses are immortalized.
Deoxyribonucleic Acid.

“Oh, The Master of Games is a suave one,” a voice whispers from Nothingness.

Be Aware: Eye intercourse is fraught with porno.

The Virgin Mary Push...
Knocking sense into my thick knocker.
“No Master No Games!”

“Forget this antiquated connection. It’s not real! It’s an old archeological piece of bone that just happened to creep into this life ... freezing your soul,”
She rejoiced to my Duomo buried under so many reincarnations.

“It’s all so vague, yet specific,” I reply passionless.

My Story Ta-da!
“What are you gonna do?”

I’m like a mouse in my own home.
Bold when no one’s there—turn on the the light, I scurry.

“What are you gonna do?”

I say... six to a dozen times a day.

walking to yoga Ta-da!
walking to Li-Lac chocolates Ta-da!
walking to the subway Ta-da!
walking to the Film Forum Ta-da!
walking to coffee in the morning Ta-da!

walking walking walking

walking to phantoms amori lothario del passato
walking to tom catting desires of the futuro
walking to inevitable skeletal morta
Da-ta!

“What are you gonna do?”

Grinning at Myself in Book Store Reflections

walking to the hot pink Samsonite luggage
housing broken nuptials

walking to the thrill of unsolicited
fervent war zoned liaisons

walking to stamp out all Masters of Games—
“No Master No Games!”
Ta-da!!

walking walking walking

to dusty vaults
stuffed
with our artichoke superfluous
filmic lives

to jeweled gardened troves bursting
with caskets of

Ta da!

walking to bone chilling canals of Lifetimes
walking to high Art tattoo arcades
walking to lavish Zucchini sticks

All Cannoli creamed softened love.
The sweetest of all Ta-da! Ta-da Ta-da Ta-da!!!!

NYC—Let Them Eat Pizza

A fictitious ruin mindset poses as loss... but... is
rejected in the paraded arteries of New York City.

Architectural Sanctuaries of madness
chambers piping dreams—cravings—aspirations.

walking and thinking
walking and thinking
walking and thinking

Hold on!
Let’s not forget The schlepping!
A sculptured art form we urbanites of NYC have perfected.

The shoulder dips that we graciously allow while
walking, schlepping, thinking, walking, schlepping, thinking.

Rosy saucy streets we invade.

Jane Hudson Bleecker Canal Houston LES The Alphabets Central Park Uptown Downtown Harlem...
streets lined with gold and we can’t figure it out ‘cause they’re not... but for us they are.

The Nitty Gritty

All possibilities all dreams all tragedies all friendships
all lovers all tiny gardens all small smiles all faith
all desires all broken sidewalks all bruised hearts
all all all ...

Frank’s not wrong neither is Woody.

Us New Yorkers think we own the world
and in some ways we do.
Our freedom and survival is what we own.

We walk to our own beat and that’s...
that’s The Big Apple, baby.

Ta da!!
Walking walking walking
hankering for a slice...
crossing the street waiting for the
blinking red hand signal to say,
“Stop!!!I mean it.”

I never take the chance once the fluttering cherry
starts to fade ...

especially on Seventh Alligator.