Alone in East Village on First Avenue with a fire escape overlooking everyone that moves their legs underneath their pelvic bones. They let their hips wander left to right as they throw their pickled heads back into the air laughing these laughs that only instill the romantic moments that they chase. But are they forever chasing in this city where everyone is beautiful but so empty that I find my short term attention span grinding dead into the bones that I keep trying to hold still and hold still, but my leg persistently shakes and shakes in order to maintain the same rhythm as my brain?
And I’m just two stories higher than the sidewalk that holds all of this supposed magic that we’ve all heard about in New York. The gum thats been stuck there since art was something that was fruitful and productive of some kind of career. Who am I when I’m uninspired and out of love. I was a drug baby, a socialite screaming when they find humor in something because damn it feels good to feel good can this last for a little longer. I guess I’ll need more I’ll need more to sway in this way. I’m the same fleshy mass that lifts its head to the spinning planets above because I’m laughing I’m laughing I’ll hold my smile on my face after until the muscles melt back into my veracious silence that I swallow and swallow. It’s not that I don’t want anyone to know or see, it’s that I don’t want to know or see that I’m just so bored I’m so fucking bored I’m not making art, and I’m not making sense.
But I’m going to live alone. I’m going to live alone and take the yoga on St Marks for free and work out my body until I’m sweating out every anxious squirm that makes my sweat itch my skin that I scrub off with my pumice stone that I’m somehow attached to until it shines that raw bleeding patch that crackles and dries the next day, and I can feel it everywhere I go and remember that I’m uncomfortable and tried to rip my layer off due to the possibility that there was a fresh start underneath, but you know, I got the one I’ve always been stuck with. Your body ain’t a limb you could chop up only to receive a second chance, is it, is it, is it.
I’m going to live alone and hide inside of new walls with my lonely nights of a nice bottle of red wine that I’ll buy myself only to whipe my hands on the strings of my guitar and record spurning music that you will hear. And as you pat my back and tell me that you love the way I spit my odious paste into words, but did I fall back into the devil again? But it’s okay because I’ll be painting paper until you see something that makes your chest dry up into dehydrated ice cream, and you’ll see what I’m trying to get rid of. I’m going to live alone, and I’m going to conquer this unstoppable sense that I’m a ghoul from the spirit world who tripped into this conscious state. What if this is what happens to people who off themselves. They wake up, and all continues as if you never left, but the one aspect is that you just can’t feel can’t feel there is nothing inside of you that can grab onto the whole part where this is supposed to mean something. I can look all of you in the eyes knowing that I’ll never look into them again, and it will never settle into my mind that it is reality. And I’ll keep finding myself in other cities in other countries in other parts of the world with other human beings that know nothing about all that is carried with my name. I can talk to anyone and believe that I care about them if they are the kind of kin that makes me feel like I can feel. The truth is that I can always run away, and I think that is what’s wrong. I want to be living a life that is so beautiful, I couldn’t dare consider disappearing again.