On a sleepy train ride back to New York. The man next to me brought no books, has no distraction. He stares at the seat in front of him. I claimed the window before he sat down. I can feel his resentment growing.

He wears a crest ring on his right hand.
He hates me.

He woke up and started reading over my shoulder.
Now he really hates me.

American looks rather lovely today, in shades of gray. Rainstorms follow us, or maybe we are just meeting them.

A storm-cloud forms in Connecticut, and meanders north at whatever pace it is that Sunday afternoon storms do. If Alessandra boards a train in Boston, how long before she remarks about the beauty of the rainy day?

We pass empty beaches, I wish the train would stop, allow me to get out for a few minutes. Just stand. Not so long as to feel cold, just long enough to take in the air. Hold some salt to my skin.

I drove around with Taylor, told him that this wasn’t what I wanted. Not him, the setting. Midnight deserved more than these side streets. If I had to leave the city it shouldn’t be for the suburbs. He drove to the nearest break in pavement, parked by the river. I was not wearing the right sort of shoes to creep down to the water.
So instead, we just spoke.

I am ready to leave Boston, I wanted to drive to Rockport. I understood that halibut point would be miserable, frozen over. Dangerous and probably closed. I still wanted to go.

I thought I would do more writing this week. Instead, I coughed up Brooklyn on Monday in a consumptive fit. Blood-letting of muses used up my inspiration. I have spent the rest of the week attempting not to focus my attentions on the wrong ones.

My father met me at the station when I arrived, which was rather sweet. Jump-cut to me running towards him, dramatic, wrapped in red coat. Hugs and affection and such.

No one to meet me at Penn Station.
Which is just fine by me.





I love the cover of my new journal.


The poem of the seven veils.

People often ask if I perform burlesque.
I don’t, but I read poetry.
Can’t reveal much more of myself.

I called up an old lover of mine
How about we just lay on the carpet
And drink too much wine?
It was that kind of night, we both needed one.
He walked into the kitchen,
I stood on my toes, stretched towards wine glass
He said
“Every time I see you,
You look more you.”
“New York gives me an excuse.”

I wondered how many times I had
Pressed the pattern of the carpet into his skin.
He smiled like 17,
Smelled like tobacco leaves.

We spoke of escape,
He was driving to L.A.
I was still breathing Brooklyn
I revealed what the psychic had told me,
About the impending doom of
The second week of January.

We spent the evening
Pressing old stories into skin
Bite marks, moans
Cigarette burns.

I recited poetry,
He laughed at all the right lines,
Reminded me,
“You collect a lot of ammunition.”

I asked him,
“Why do all the bad decisions have to be so good looking?”
“When did it become so hard to be easy?”

I sighed, admitted
“I’m in trouble with this one.”
Then again
Sometimes you just have to do it for the story.