transplant

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I want to live in the neighborhood of you.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.
I want to know what it used to be like here,
twenty years ago, before I moved in.
I want to pick up my clean clothes
and give you my dirty things.
I want to pick up your litter
and throw mine away.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

I want you to take me on a Gray Line tour,
make me follow your colored umbrella,
spend too much on souvenirs I know I’ll lose.
I want to skip to the front of your VIP line
and get dirty looks for doing it.
I want to sing on your streets
loudly and obnoxiously because I know I can,
while wearing my PJs and smiling
with unbrushed teeth.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

I want to wander your parks in spring
and curse your wind in winter.
I want to have to get dressed up for you,
so that I can be undressed later.
I want to be surprised when I find
the no-named place around the corner
has always served my favorite food.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

I want to explore the interior
of your gentrified thighs.
I want to feel the danger of your ghettos
and sit on the subways of your veins.
I want to rent a car and play
pinball bumper cars on your FDR.
I want to forget where I was last night
and be happy that I woke up at home.
I want your din to comfort me while I sleep.
I want to find the bodega around the corner
that knows my name.

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the day i messed up my pills

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(dedicated in love + friendship to the rockstar, haha)

It’s just that this distortion of chemicals, a twisted
rainbow of hormones and instant response are making me
fall asleep in the elevator, much to the dismay
of my fellow passengers, not understanding that I
could be a junkie for the melancholy. And when it’s dark
already at 5 o’clock, I want to
cry a river of weeping for summers lost,
28 of ’em now.
Yes, summer’s lost.

I knew I shoulda taken the subway
to work this morning but I was late,
too late to make a phone call that says
I’m sorry again and again and again.
I’m sorry I was an asshole, I don’t even
remember what I said, but I’m sure
that it was nowhere near
I love you, too.

But there are meetings for me to go to and a table
to drink myself under, convincing myself that
I can handle it
while convincing no one else.

Another cappuccino?
Si, oui, si,
that would be lovely.
Thursday is booked, but maybe we can
talk at ten.
I can’t, I have to go to Philly on Friday
and make words on Saturday
and finish that story on Sunday
before i have dinner with the guy I slept with
a few years ago, doing it all backwards:
sex first and
friendship later.

I have become too confident once again
in my abilities to produce gems
with the blink of an eye or the swish
of a smile across my now-sallow, jaundiced face.
They said, You look like shit, and I said
Well, whaddya want, I work three jobs
and still struggle cuz some of them only
pay me in warm fuzzies, which is fine until it’s time
to pay the rent.
Party all night long with everyone you know on the 31st
because tomorrow, Mr. Misrahi comes a-knockin’
for that fat check to cover the 300 square feet
that I call not home but mine.

Oooooooohhhh
Whoooooooooooooooaaaaa
Hooooold on to your hats kids,
another mood swing’s back,
swingin’ on up,
it’s maaaaaania, wheeeeeeeee!
This is a breeze!
The cappuccino’s workin’, y’all, so get
on board, if you think I’m something
you can afford.