how to endure the stillness

walk through rooms, pass the folded laundry that's needed to be shelved for days, pass the ever unmade bed, the slow accumulation of coffee cups and water glasses on the dresser, underwear stepped out of in the middle of the bedroom and left right in the center of the well-worn path to the bathroom. pick up the guitar leaning against the wall.  pick it up just for the length of a single song. sing yourself a slow version of Be My Baby then put it down. lean the guitar, a Christmas present nearly 2 years old, back against the wall rather than resting it on its good and sturdy stand, capo choking its head.  stare at a pack of cigarettes and give in. wink at the postcard leaning against a row of favorite volumes in the bookcase, the one of Marylin Monroe treating a daisy like a cigarette, smiling and confident. sit down on the front stoop. feel the hard bundle of house keys in your back pocket knuckle your ass as you sit, cigarette quickly lit, and look out on to the familiar street. it's quiet.  notice the neighbor's music floating down from upstairs, the same canned latin beat they've been listening to for years. the porch lights on the house across the street flicker so fast that it's impossible to believe someone isn't out there fixing it this very second.  or at least turning the lights off.  how can they stand it? it's been months, this flickering.  maybe everyone in the building has been paralyzed by seizures, laying tormented and convulsing below their silent windows.  remember seeing this on-off-on-off-on all last winter, getting a headache, lowering the blinds.  this flickering.  this ever-present and long-lasting, wild SOS in the dark.

your move.

I keep waiting for the phone to ring

or for a text to ding, 

a prince charming,

some sort of outreach 

or nod of understanding

and think 

"maybe I should be the one 

who makes the first move..."

I go to the bathroom 

look at my knees 

sitting perched 

upon what was once 

a common throne.

I sigh and somehow 

find the nerve or attitude 

to whisper across the tile 

"you've been making the first move for years."

my bald knees 

stare me in the face

in my empty house.

there's no solace.

I stand

flush the toilet

walk back to the kitchen

open the door 

to the fridge 

like everyone does

in the dark and lonely moments that rise

that same sad-sack montage

of common human need and want

spent looking 

for something 

you know for a fact isn't there

in the back of the same damn drawer

you've looked in 

10 times before.

fact #51

becoming a new yorker feels really good

name it

sitting on street corners

to hide the rearing head

of old and dirty habits

come creeping back after a decade

of repose. the reprieve

i've enjoyed from the awful 

loneliness that binds 

each and every human;

i thought i'd found my escape route

my security blanket

my golden ring. 

i'm just the same as any.

verlassen und gebrochen. 

fact #50

heartbroken and angry

just part of it

how is it that a day can feel so long but a year so short? 

i take a deep breath. and another. and i stand. and i walk into the next room. and i look at the tools i've collected to build a certain kind of life with. and i stare. i stare at the tools with my hands in my pockets and i take a deep breath again. or is it a sigh? and then i look myself in the eye in the mirror and i say, "you've done so many good things. hold on to that today." and i walk back out of the room.