Etta James, you come to me as a dream.
You more than have a hold on me, you recite my thoughts before they've even made it to the page.
Otis Redding, you haunt my reverie.
I think of you as cool water running over my sunburnt skin, forming perfect little orbs along my forearms.
Odetta, you are Appalachia and I, your weary son.
In thinking of you I smell fields of tobacco and bourbon stills, my periphery vision holds tinctures on wooden shelves.
David Bowie, you reside in my loins.
Every time I lick my lips I think of you, and remember the difference between sensual and sexual.
Tom Waits, you slick bastard.
If I am doomed to never find love it is because you set the bar just too far out of reach.
Amen.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August Tomatoes
His lips smacked of goldenrod and dandelions.
They were gritty as the crevasses of a chanterelle that you just can't clean the depth of, but at the same time don't want to.
The dirt from his lips found its way under my fingernails and as I bit them down I was reminded of the salt he replenished in me.
He was butter, and I was spread.
I confused his arms for beet greens and when they touched me I knew them to be red ribbon sorrel, the citrus etching itself into my skin.
His eyes were nectarines into which mine ravenously stared until I could see the stones at their very core.
If toes he had, they were Umbrian truffles. Dank and grainy, unctuous and alluring.
When we laid down together, we were a delicacy.
We were simple tomatoes, reclined in an oven of our own design.
We awoke just as our flesh began to pucker and bubble.
We had the good salt.
We were perfectly seasoned.
They were gritty as the crevasses of a chanterelle that you just can't clean the depth of, but at the same time don't want to.
The dirt from his lips found its way under my fingernails and as I bit them down I was reminded of the salt he replenished in me.
He was butter, and I was spread.
I confused his arms for beet greens and when they touched me I knew them to be red ribbon sorrel, the citrus etching itself into my skin.
His eyes were nectarines into which mine ravenously stared until I could see the stones at their very core.
If toes he had, they were Umbrian truffles. Dank and grainy, unctuous and alluring.
When we laid down together, we were a delicacy.
We were simple tomatoes, reclined in an oven of our own design.
We awoke just as our flesh began to pucker and bubble.
We had the good salt.
We were perfectly seasoned.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I'm No Batman
Upon leaving my apartment this morning, I was immediately met with a band of children roughly six to eight years of age. They were a bicycle gang, very much unlike the kind you find in Cambridge or Brooklyn where seven-year olds already have decals depicting their cousin’s band and “Life is Good” stickers adoring their bikes. This is Harlem, and these bikes are hand-me-downs and yard sale purchases – some are even dumpster diving acquisitions.
But I’ve never been one for material things. I had a rather large comic book collection and I gave it away for gin and poutine (I was hot and starving). Mine has, and always will be, the language of events. A boy of maybe eight was perched atop the garden wall in front of my building, a young black Moses calling edicts down from Sinai to his brethren below as they toiled helplessly with the bicycle in question. When I appeared, his voice that had been shrill and scolding of his peers became soft and articulated. He turned to me from atop the parapet:
“Mister, do you have a screwdriver?”
“I’m so sorry, no,” I replied.
Then, the world’s greatest, most innocent non sequitur:
“Hey, mister, are you single?” he asked lightly.
I am single, I thought, but how the hell did this kid know that? The sheer fear and awe in my face had to have been so clearly visible because even I could see it without even looking at myself. Consequently, this is when I began to run.
These schoolyard mystics had divined my secret and all I could do to stand up to their inquisition was run. Sensing my discomfort, the questioning then grew malicious.
“Hey, mister, are you gay? Mister! Are you gay and single?”
I didn’t stick around long enough to answer, mostly because I was terrified if I did how they might respond. In my heart of hearts, I hoped that if I responded “yes” to both they would accept me into their fold and I, being the only one with an allowance, would have gladly gone to the hardware store for them, purchased a screwdriver and even tried my abysmally feeble hand at fixing the communal bicycle. They would have lauded me as a demigod and continued their line of questioning, only this time the question would be:
“Hey, mister, why are you single?” Their shock and disbelief underscoring my own at how this could be. How could anyone “cool” enough to buy some street kids a screwdriver be single? My sentiments exactly.
By the time I realized I hadn’t actually gone and bought the screwdriver like I thought I had in my waking daydream, I found myself on the A train. Still single. Still gay. And, still without a clue as to how these babies could so easily cut me to the quick. I guess people in relationships carry utility belts, like Batman. Now partnered, they have tools that us single people don’t, such as confidence and duct tape. If I were to fashion my own single’s utility belt its contents would be as follows:
-wine key
-pepper spray
-an umbrella
-comfortable shoes to change into
-a Michael McDonald album
-and a vintage copy of “Honcho”
So I’m no Batman, and much less do I have a Robin of my own. What troubles me most, however, is the idea that I was tortured by the innocent ramblings of some sniveling children. It was in processing my emotions in and around this event that I came to realize that religion will always exist. Prayer preys, and it most often preys on the weak. And in a week, I hope to not be so weak as to let a happening as this catch me off guard.
But I’ve never been one for material things. I had a rather large comic book collection and I gave it away for gin and poutine (I was hot and starving). Mine has, and always will be, the language of events. A boy of maybe eight was perched atop the garden wall in front of my building, a young black Moses calling edicts down from Sinai to his brethren below as they toiled helplessly with the bicycle in question. When I appeared, his voice that had been shrill and scolding of his peers became soft and articulated. He turned to me from atop the parapet:
“Mister, do you have a screwdriver?”
“I’m so sorry, no,” I replied.
Then, the world’s greatest, most innocent non sequitur:
“Hey, mister, are you single?” he asked lightly.
I am single, I thought, but how the hell did this kid know that? The sheer fear and awe in my face had to have been so clearly visible because even I could see it without even looking at myself. Consequently, this is when I began to run.
These schoolyard mystics had divined my secret and all I could do to stand up to their inquisition was run. Sensing my discomfort, the questioning then grew malicious.
“Hey, mister, are you gay? Mister! Are you gay and single?”
I didn’t stick around long enough to answer, mostly because I was terrified if I did how they might respond. In my heart of hearts, I hoped that if I responded “yes” to both they would accept me into their fold and I, being the only one with an allowance, would have gladly gone to the hardware store for them, purchased a screwdriver and even tried my abysmally feeble hand at fixing the communal bicycle. They would have lauded me as a demigod and continued their line of questioning, only this time the question would be:
“Hey, mister, why are you single?” Their shock and disbelief underscoring my own at how this could be. How could anyone “cool” enough to buy some street kids a screwdriver be single? My sentiments exactly.
By the time I realized I hadn’t actually gone and bought the screwdriver like I thought I had in my waking daydream, I found myself on the A train. Still single. Still gay. And, still without a clue as to how these babies could so easily cut me to the quick. I guess people in relationships carry utility belts, like Batman. Now partnered, they have tools that us single people don’t, such as confidence and duct tape. If I were to fashion my own single’s utility belt its contents would be as follows:
-wine key
-pepper spray
-an umbrella
-comfortable shoes to change into
-a Michael McDonald album
-and a vintage copy of “Honcho”
So I’m no Batman, and much less do I have a Robin of my own. What troubles me most, however, is the idea that I was tortured by the innocent ramblings of some sniveling children. It was in processing my emotions in and around this event that I came to realize that religion will always exist. Prayer preys, and it most often preys on the weak. And in a week, I hope to not be so weak as to let a happening as this catch me off guard.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My Hipster Jesus
Give me that god damn tambourine!
Give it here, right now.
You can keep your jumper on, as long as you agree to take off that ridiculously cool "Reading Rainbow" t-shirt that you're far too young to even remember.
Bring me, Barrabas! Bring me, Sufjan Stevens! Bring me, Edward Sharpe!
Just bring me a shuttle bus with properly functioning A/C so the smell of Bushwick doesn't linger on my clothes all night while I've serving lobster and rack of lamb, only to remind me that I don't belong here.
Hijack the taco truck on 14th Street, and let's leave the twinks of Chelsea in our wake.
If 8th Avenue where self-esteem it wouldn't make it to midtown.
The only HERO I've met since moving to New York takes place on Sundays in the basement of the Maritime Hotel and costs $10 to get inside for the right to feel inadequate and unshapely.
I write in pen, on paper, because AT&T never drops my pen.
I always get service, even if I forget to pay my bill.
To the subject of hospitality, bill me for my laughter, bill me for my beer, bill me for the sheep that flock to me, their shepherd.
I will pay with my EBT card, my cut-off shorts and fixed speed bicycle, my in-between MTA and sidewalk sweat, and I'll put my dignity on layaway if you can still do that these days.
Here is my decree:
I will never stop loving Tom Waits.
I will always say "yes" to another if the conversation is flowing like white zinfindel from a spigot.
I will not apologize for putting a shower off one more day.
Give me that tambourine!
I have a truck to catch.
Give it here, right now.
You can keep your jumper on, as long as you agree to take off that ridiculously cool "Reading Rainbow" t-shirt that you're far too young to even remember.
Bring me, Barrabas! Bring me, Sufjan Stevens! Bring me, Edward Sharpe!
Just bring me a shuttle bus with properly functioning A/C so the smell of Bushwick doesn't linger on my clothes all night while I've serving lobster and rack of lamb, only to remind me that I don't belong here.
Hijack the taco truck on 14th Street, and let's leave the twinks of Chelsea in our wake.
If 8th Avenue where self-esteem it wouldn't make it to midtown.
The only HERO I've met since moving to New York takes place on Sundays in the basement of the Maritime Hotel and costs $10 to get inside for the right to feel inadequate and unshapely.
I write in pen, on paper, because AT&T never drops my pen.
I always get service, even if I forget to pay my bill.
To the subject of hospitality, bill me for my laughter, bill me for my beer, bill me for the sheep that flock to me, their shepherd.
I will pay with my EBT card, my cut-off shorts and fixed speed bicycle, my in-between MTA and sidewalk sweat, and I'll put my dignity on layaway if you can still do that these days.
Here is my decree:
I will never stop loving Tom Waits.
I will always say "yes" to another if the conversation is flowing like white zinfindel from a spigot.
I will not apologize for putting a shower off one more day.
Give me that tambourine!
I have a truck to catch.
Train Rides and Foot Travels
When you're truly happy, there is a certain Taoist principle that applies involving not actually verbalizing your joy. It is implied. The people closest to you recognize it immediately as genuine and there is no need to ask niceties such as "How are you?"
Of late, I've been pondering moments in my recent history that literally my heart sing. These are events that have occurred where my generally garrulous tongue finds itself without words. Instances where upon having another similar experience the sheer body memory of euphoria brings you immediately back to the last time you felt this way. Here's a short list of moments that have produced a wide grin across my face that make me feel as though a happy bout of Bell's Palsy may be at work:
- Being at a bar in Chelsea and having the entire place sing "His Eyes Are on the Sparrow" from the Sister Act 2 soundtrack.
- The final encore of the Crooked Still concert at Sanders Theater involves a call-and-response rendition of "Shady Grove."
- Bringing down the house with a rollicking version of "You Can Call Me Al" by Paul Simon at a karaoke bar full of strangers in the Lower East Side.
- Getting up in front a bevy of Brooklyn hipsters in Bushwick and reading a piece that I wrote about voyeurism in the city and how it specifically reminds me of watching Adult Swim when I had a television.
- Going to the Bowery Ballroom and hearing "Modal Combat" perform their Super Nintendo set while swilling PBR cans and attempting to quell church laughter.
- Hearing my mother retell the story of how she lost my brother's dog and dejectedly plopped down on the lawn and sulked when she couldn't find him, "Pup-eroni" in one hand and dignity just out of grasp of the other.
Then, in thinking about what scares me, I believe the most frightening event that could ever happen to me would involve an inability to communicate. There are days where the only sustenance I have is conversation, and I eat it with relish.
And the truth is some days we eat better than others. Clearly, the gentleman across from me on the train the other morning were starving for conversation. They were reciting, one for one, their Netflix queues. This is not even to say a discussion of cinema, but rather a pissing contest of who's list is longer. I have an idea, boys: whip'em out, and let's all see who's is longer. I could already tell that the bespectacled fellow's leans a little to the left, and includes far more Indie and Foreign selections.
If such dialogue ever becomes the best I can muster I sincerely hope someone takes me out back and finishes me, Old Yeller-style. PUT. ME. DOWN.
Then, there's little lyric I wrote the other morning:
toes number a total of ten,
and i'm totally reticent to count more.
if feet could talk mind a dirge would sing,
for they know, for them, what's in store.
Of late, I've been pondering moments in my recent history that literally my heart sing. These are events that have occurred where my generally garrulous tongue finds itself without words. Instances where upon having another similar experience the sheer body memory of euphoria brings you immediately back to the last time you felt this way. Here's a short list of moments that have produced a wide grin across my face that make me feel as though a happy bout of Bell's Palsy may be at work:
- Being at a bar in Chelsea and having the entire place sing "His Eyes Are on the Sparrow" from the Sister Act 2 soundtrack.
- The final encore of the Crooked Still concert at Sanders Theater involves a call-and-response rendition of "Shady Grove."
- Bringing down the house with a rollicking version of "You Can Call Me Al" by Paul Simon at a karaoke bar full of strangers in the Lower East Side.
- Getting up in front a bevy of Brooklyn hipsters in Bushwick and reading a piece that I wrote about voyeurism in the city and how it specifically reminds me of watching Adult Swim when I had a television.
- Going to the Bowery Ballroom and hearing "Modal Combat" perform their Super Nintendo set while swilling PBR cans and attempting to quell church laughter.
- Hearing my mother retell the story of how she lost my brother's dog and dejectedly plopped down on the lawn and sulked when she couldn't find him, "Pup-eroni" in one hand and dignity just out of grasp of the other.
Then, in thinking about what scares me, I believe the most frightening event that could ever happen to me would involve an inability to communicate. There are days where the only sustenance I have is conversation, and I eat it with relish.
And the truth is some days we eat better than others. Clearly, the gentleman across from me on the train the other morning were starving for conversation. They were reciting, one for one, their Netflix queues. This is not even to say a discussion of cinema, but rather a pissing contest of who's list is longer. I have an idea, boys: whip'em out, and let's all see who's is longer. I could already tell that the bespectacled fellow's leans a little to the left, and includes far more Indie and Foreign selections.
If such dialogue ever becomes the best I can muster I sincerely hope someone takes me out back and finishes me, Old Yeller-style. PUT. ME. DOWN.
Then, there's little lyric I wrote the other morning:
toes number a total of ten,
and i'm totally reticent to count more.
if feet could talk mind a dirge would sing,
for they know, for them, what's in store.
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