Tuesday, December 29, 2015

As the plane descended over the farms and little towns, I wondered what we looked like from the ground. I considered the size of the cars on the highway from up here and got a pretty good idea, I thought. Not too big really. But not too small. Was there someone down there, maybe a young boy, who looked up and wished he was aboard?

Thursday, December 24, 2015

The Morning Interruption

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, please excuse the interruption. I am currently homeless due to a fire that destroyed my apartment at a recent time. I would like to get back on my feet soon. I would like to get a job and put my life together. I would sincerely appreciate some help, yadda yadda yadda.

Again, I am sorry for interrupting your ride. I see that most of you are listening to your audio devices and pretending you don’t hear me too. Some are reading books or magazines. I regret that I’m interfering with your enjoyment and/or relaxation. But I am a person in need.

You were probably sitting there thinking, OK, I made my train. Only gonna be a few minutes late to work today. Time to plug those earbuds in and disconnect from reality. Listening to what, your podcast. This American Life. Mark Maron. In all likelihood. And then sure enough, here I am, stepping onto the crowded train just before the doors close and starting to holler on about something. I know your heart sank when I opened my mouth. Don’t say it didn’t, I know it did. Oh fuck, you thought to yourself, it’s one of these fucking guys. Ignore him and he’ll shut up after a while. I know, I once was you. In the times before my apartment and personal belongings were destroyed in a fire. Before I allowed addiction to temporarily overwhelm my life, although I am now on a recovery path. Back when I still had a job. Damn, I’m not shutting up after all. I could use anything you’d be so kind and generous to offer. Dollars, pennies. A sandwich.

You were sitting there all peaceful like, wondering about some shit your boss said yesterday, worryin’ about a deliverable. Maybe you had a fight with the wife this morning. The husband. Or maybe you rolled out of the bed of someone you met on Tinder. You didn’t think she had a dog, did you? But sure enough there he was, yappin’ at your ankles at six o’clock in the morning. Where the fuck am I?, you thought. What is this bed? What are these sheets with flowers on them? Who is this other human being? Where the fuck did this little dog come from? Dog’s gotta go out tho. It’s what dogs do.

You can’t believe I’m still talking. It jus’ ain’t supposed to be.

She was alright, she was nice. Too nice. Now you’re afraid she wants to see you again, am I right? And you do too but you’re afraid. You know she’s a nice girl, and smart, and she oughta be the mother of your children someday. But you’re a scared ‘n’ irresponsible 32-year-old man who thinks the holy motherfuckin’ grail of women is still out there for you to fuck. So you said goodbye, thank you, had a great time. Gave her a little kiss and said you’d call her but you know you won’t. Bet you felt a little dirty when you wandered into the Dunkin’ Donuts near the train to get your coffee on. A little dirty, a little guilty. And sad.

Am I right?

But today’s a new day! Maybe you can make it a new day for me. As I explained earlier, I am recovering from addiction and in addition to that fact my home was recently ravaged by fire, during which time I also found myself out of a job. So I could use a little help. Anything you got. I could use your prayers. I could use your positive thoughts. I could use your money.

God bless you all and have a safe journey.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

The rasta’s back. In the corridor of the West 4th Street stop, after an absence of a couple weeks—or was it a couple months?—when he was replaced by a demure, raven-haired lady who strummed her acoustic sitting down. Rastaman is back. Same guy I used to see up at the Bryant Park stop, evidently haunting me. When I saw him tonight I felt a pang of rage, just at the monotony of it, the insulting dreariness, compounded by having stayed at the office late with vexing work. But as I walked by him and heard his idiotic wacka-jawacka chords coming out his fuzzy little amp, my mood lifted. He played an open A, as though that meant anything. And maybe it did. Some things never change for a reason.

Friday, December 18, 2015


“Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you!”

Thursday, December 17, 2015

As I walked home from the train I looked up to a top-floor apartment on 8th Ave. A large TV hung on the wall and played, shapes and lights flashing across the screen. It played to a lit-up Christmas tree visible through the window to the left. These were the only two things I could see.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015


also looked incredulously at the blood.
While cooking last night I forgot something from one moment to the next, something I had just remembered I was supposed to do. I turned to do something else, to close the refrigerator maybe, and it was gone. It was something that struck me as important when I remembered it, and I was relieved to remember it, and I thought to myself that I had to get to it. And then it was gone.

This morning I had a half-dream there was a storm outside, wind blowing against the windows, branches falling off of trees. When I awoke I thought it might still be going on. But there was nothing. The world was dry and quiet, a band of blue above the morning fog.

Monday, December 14, 2015

There's a faint, sweet scent in the air, something to do with it being so warm for December. The smell of things that thought they were dying coming back to life.


I had a thousand other questions. I even looked for a way to ask who the girl was that

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Came home last night with that kind of lucid drunk, where you notice the faces across from you on the train, of young women resting on each other's shoulders, nearly asleep after a night out on the town.

It was past 2 and the pizza place was open, just like it always is, like it was 9 o'clock, or 2 in the afternoon. Same type of people inside, too. I got two slices to go, taking great care to enunciate the word “regular.”

At home I watched the beginning of “Blade Runner,” set in 2019, with replicants who’d been activated in 2016. I considered whether there was anything prescient in the film. Maybe the ubiquity of commercials, the grimy mix of cultures. I guess we are awaiting the singularity sometime soon. But not the flying cars. Always the flying cars.

Friday, December 11, 2015


an eighty-year-old man who had tumbled from a ladder while replacing a lightbulb.