this man moved to new york city

i once met a man who said we shared a birthday.

when were you born? i asked.

october, he said.

i was born in june, i said.

close enough, he said.

later this man cut his hair and dyed it black.

later this man began to wear tight pants.

later this man was my lab partner in chemistry.

later this man gave me love advice.

i gotta look out for you, he said.

white

the sink is scrubbed white (i scrubbed it).  so white it is nearly obscene (nearly stark naked).  white like a shaven head.  white like the damp underside of some heavy, black rock.  white with maggots crawling over it  (maggot white).

i scrubbed.

get a grip, i said.

i gripped the edge of the sink and scrubbed.   the skin where my fingers met was chapped, cracking.

i considered that happiness and unhappiness were like two tiles lying side-by-side on the kitchen floor.  except the kitchen floor is uncheckered and all the tiles are  grey.  i was not wearing shoes and my feet were cold.

Balcony Sunday

Paper Doll Mountain

i am only good at throwing girls into wells and boys under trains.

it is tiring.

i want to fold up the metal cages over the baseball diamond.  i want to draw the telephone poles together like long-stemmed flowers.  i want to trace the outline of the mountains against the sky before i punch them out along the perforated edge.

Saturday

Jasmine Tuesday

Darkly sweet, a night-blooming flower.

It smells like the last night of summer, the last swim in the pond under a full moon.  The moon will be full again.  It will wax and wane; it will inspire poetry, welcome space shuttles, pull at the sea.  Always the moon sailing or hidden or horned.  But not like it was that last night, that last swim, the pond water so warm around your body, the bullfrogs croaking at the shore.

Jasmine is the smell of regret, of all your lives that could have been.  Not drowning in the pond that night, but having to leave the pond.  It is the first shiver, the first goosebumps that appear, it is having to heave your body up the ladder to the dock, it is the cool night air hardening your nipples, the second shiver, your damp shirt sticking to your back.

It is riding home on the bicycle, your hair still wet, with the flashlight taped on the handlebars.  It is following the white lines on the street before you, knowing well that you just left the last full moon of the summer, the last summer of your life.

Monday

it is dark outside.

we are in a room without windows, but the door is open and i can see the hallway outside the door and at the end of the hallway there is a window.

outside the window, it is dark.

the dark is outside.  so for the moment i am safe, inside a room without windows.

the dark says, you are not safe.

i don’t say anything back.  i shut the door.

i drink a diet soda.  i feel my stomach lining wearing away.  i never drink soda.  i only drink soda at parties.  i often eat chips and salsa at parties.  sometimes i dance at parties.  sometimes i go to birthday parties and i eat birthday cake.  sometimes i don’t go to birthday parties, but i eat the birthday cake anyway, at a later time, when the leftovers are offered to me.  why any birthday cake should ever be left over from a birthday party baffles me.

by the time i open the door and walk down the hallway, and pass the open window, i have forgotten about the dark.  i am thinking of that midnight birthday surprise four years ago when i had the best birthday cake. just me in pajamas, a plastic fork and a paper napkin.

the other guests left me alone. their white teeth sparkled behind red lipstick.

Saturday

Thursday

the state university.  a young man doing sit ups against the brick wall, his body lifting and falling on the sidewalk.  further down the block, palm trees, adobe houses, two boys on skateboards, their hair cropped close and invisible tattoos already climbing up their arms.

at the stoplight, i feel an urge to climb out the window, but i don’t.  on the other side of the highway, 10^th street becomes one-way south.  we follow the white arrow, and it takes us someplace.

Wednesday

i lied down in the space between the wall and my bed and felt comforted.  small spaces can hold you, small gestures, small favors, small talk, all of it keeps you safe.  i thought of kenji and the note in his pocket when they find him hanging from the ceiling – life is bliss.

alone, i said, unlit.  the venetian blinds angled up so the passersby can only see the ceiling.  i thought of paul and wondered if he cheated on his wife, if that is what men do.  if it matters that they are remorseful later.  i fell asleep.

later, at the monastery, i sat on a bench and listened to the crickets, the night traffic sweeping by just outside the gate.  in my dream i was at the ocean with a family i knew.  we were in a cave.  i was deep inside it, and they were standing at the mouth.  it was getting late so they couldn’t stay, their black cut-out bodies were outlined in orange light.  we have to go, the silhouettes said.  okay, i said.