its almost the end of june and new york is overheating. making all of its creatures act oh so strange. the sweat dries on my neck and im left with a salty coat of moisture- unfazed by cold showers. tonight i walked into my kitchen to find a roach the size of an over sized date- staring at me, i made a few sudden movements, expecting it to run away into the corners and underworld of back wall pipes and wires. but it didn't, instead it stared boldly at me, waiting for me to turn the light back off and leave so thatit could tend to its business. so idid, and felt like i'd been bullied.
tonight Michelle, margolit and i went to gino's for dinner. margolit is a ten year old girl i used to rock to sleep at age one month. michelle is my roommate. she comes to visit me at gino's on my mon ot Tuesday shifts because its the only time we really see each other. we worked opposite schedules. we're approaching the three month anniversary of moving in and i've started to notice a positive correlation between how messy our apaprtment becomes and how little food there is in our fridge, with how little we see each other. i've even tried waking up early so that i can sit and drink a coffee with her at our kitchen counter. the downside to this is that when she leaves im left with hours of contemplating on what to do before i head to work or school.
most of the time i end up at the park. prospect park has become my best friend in brooklyn, while most of the people i encounter seem to wallow in their loneliness or relish in their co-dependencies, the park has a way of remaining independently alone, shaped by the people who run its course, but not to a degree that it changes its character in order to accommodate us runners, bikers, strollers, lovers, boys and girls.

in a dream
i wrote in permanent ink
onto overwashed cotton
will it bleed onto your chest
i hope.
a simple message
with collarbone readiness.

just my imagination

that i possess
this body
of words
war
the face of my enemy

third party vocabulary
i stand
above
apart
separate
but equal among enemies.

i find happiness in moments
a conversation
a smile, my smile
a song.
but at the end of the day it all feels-
disjointed.
like i can't quite fit within the lines of my shadow
my silhouette is either too big, too small, or moving in an opposite direction from me
what is the point?
i hate to ask that because i don't know the answer

Erykah Badu - Window Seat

i do laundry
at the kitchen window
fold clothes straight from the dryer
as if i'd been born for this
born knowing how to make corners and piles out of clean clothes
or maybe it's all those years i watched my parents do the same,
mommy ironing our skirts and dresses with a VHS tape playing in the background

it will always be summer,
the way i remember things,
summer breeze and summers' sun
setting only after we lay in bed,
backs beaded with sweat, stuck to tie-dyed sheets.

thinking about memories and laundry and summer nights
about the smell of pasta and the sticky yellow linoleum tiles
windows open
and we come,
running, dirty hands, inside for dinner.

i want to sit closely
on plastic orange seats

invite you into my row
and place my headphones around your ears

its the mommas and the poppas
'dedicated to the one i love'

my eyes taping it all
the circle moon, penciled onto white plastic subway walls

initials and shapes and tags
one more thing to dream about, unknowingly

the stranger in my dream walks by me in the park
i only notice him the second time around

down syndrome, he walks with his mother
and i wonder if god is playing tricks

to send someone to me in a dream
and let him walk right by

after 'so many months'
i get a letter from you
what i thought was your ghost
turned out to be your shadow

after so many months
of you,
considering me
a stranger.

after so many months,
uncle buddy died,
after so many years
of him,
considering her
too far.

what they thought was his time to fight
was his time to wait
what he thought was her voice
were voices in his head
and he got skinny without her by his side.

trying to laugh like he did
to let his children think he could still live
without her

meeker, thinner, softer
than i ever was
you left my side
and i came back to greet this life

i thought it was time to fight
thought it was time to reach you in the dark
and i fought fought fought
with fierce eyes
tiger-ed lips pursed to the jungle we braved
left
with cuts and bruises

but with tough and callous feet
i walked away, continued
walked in front
because without afternoon's shadow
i had no way of knowing where you were
when you left my side

when she left his side
his feet became soft
preferring to walk on sand
we let you go, dear Uncle.

pink. I float on clouds two inches above the keys in my hand
im too high to light ignitions,
to spark distance on the long road ahead
im out of earshot of this fast mouth
i shiver but i'm too far to feel cold, or hot
i cry
too numb to make it last
thinking
of you in ten years
i plead
thinking
of my body
i shake
wet in your company
breathing deep and singing loud

waiting

tonight is all i know
street lamp serenity, mystery in your rhyme
i wait.

knowing you may
or may not be on your way
i forget.

about daylight,
and all things that come with tomorrow,
because night lasts

because night is
traveling.

In The Dugout

In the dugout
You dug me out
Of suburban boredom,
I do the same
laugh with the rhythm of pretned-permaenence
i am
temporary
so when You mispronounce my name, i don't really mind
and your name?
what is it again- one of those easy names, like john or mike.
Too easy that i second guess myself when I call to you, outloud
So we prefer to go nameless
feeling anonymitiy’s breeze on our naked backs
We watch the sun set over the yellow house
We Smoke cigarettes,
And lean against wire net.
breathing baseball’s tan dust in early spring
(or is it late winter?)
we stay until sun set,
until our families need us
to return keys,
to swoop up little ones.
us
secret players at dusk,
chewing and spitting eachother out like tobacco

as long as you leave less lonely than when you arrived.
"as long as it's fun,"
can't rememebr who told me that or how old i was
an age when everything was suppoed to be "fun" i guess
but even at that age i knew there was more than that
i knew about pain and wasn;t scared to wash it away with days of tears
i knew about secrets and wasn't ashamed to bear my few
as ong as i leave having more fun than when i came,
i know this is all it is
tonight i left you less lonely and more sad
sad that i had to leave my home to come to yours
sad when you stroked my hari the way that is so damn sweet

This song sounds like you.
How you spoke softly,
His voice is scratchy, but strong.
He plucks his guitar strings
Like you Plucked every string of young heart

I felt like an indigenous mexican instrument,
Like hollow wood
Like ancient bark
Handled with care
By you.

"Tu Dueno"
You were,
My Gypsy King.

This song is mine.
It ends only to be started again
I can't recognize beginnings since you left
When endings are never certain
And you are always with me.

Watching you sleep was the loneliest part of our nights.

Singing, he continues, Vibrato
Echoing in my ear
Layering your memory atop reality
Of invisibility.

Why did you take my voice from your head?
Without it I may never appear to you in a song.

Vibrato-ed love,
You made it last.
You didn't just love me-
You looovvvveeeed me,
Without punctuation
You loved me on a blank white page
Eternal, pure, dove and olive branch.
Eternally fading white,
Neither brighter nor duller than the day beofre
Softly singing
You sang to me
A song sung.

Where are you off to
Quiet nights I can not take
So take me with you
Wherever you're going, I'll go
I'll drive when you get tired
And cook when we're hungry
I already save half of what I eat for you,
Imagine.
Imagine how much of the same it will be
Not knowing you and knowing you
I believe in you
therefore
i already know you
already love you.

hands reaching in time's confusion
you're either for me
or against
up against this wall
i stood
still
through night's quiet
and dark cold breeze against the back of my neck that your scarf's cotton
couldn't caress
couldn't care less
about
a man and his cold night
i wish i did.

im not that girl with that guy. im the dj, im here for the music. neither male or female with headphones hanging from one ear. i can't wait.

i ran into the diner and she wondered
shouldn't I be used to the ten degree windchill in the middle of night air?
i said no, you don't get used to cold like this.
maybe it even gets a little worse each winter.
becuase this year, it's back, again.
so we order.
warm food, fried and elastic cheese make us feel like worry-less kids.
entertaining our friends across the booth with stories of our past lives in a city as far as memory.
pay. leave and run to our car
our friends watch us giggle and we dive like divas into the red toyota.
drove home but i was so tired i dont remember that part.
sleep, sleep.
me on her right side and her on my left.

hip hop
rocked me home

mich in the city is moving,
to a new city.
welcome me, new york.
you did today when you tricked us into your industrial cool
into your manhattan views with exposed brick-
bed bugs.

let's raise a prince together
you will be my king and i wlil try so hard to a queen for you.
until the day i show up at your doorstep, or send you the key to mine-
i'll be here.
making memories of our prince unborn, unscathed by all things that make us tired.
i'm here baking bread, kissing his forehead
there you are, one of those 'cool' dads we always point out
swinging their sons across their shoulders or their daughters on their backs

we weren't good enough for eachother then
now, i'm too good for him
he's too good for me
we're good in theory
we're good at first moment
first thought
wedding dress fantasy cut short
subway love
he reminds me of...

love's faces are in the past, cold memory
salimander sides the road, cold body
fall's hint
deer's fear, of me
me, of them
scattered in green fields where the light can still shine
branches of trees shadow forests,
brining sunset hours early.
the forest,
friendly from afar
only far and distant places are as good as you imagine.

"... I like to think that for that moment, they were stretched out to become a painting, a poem, something for me to design and be and focus on as the world is shaped not by my fingers but by my hopes and I become so deeply embedded I merely forget I am working, reading, eating,..." Disjointed memories in Malik Wilson's first memoir are captured with poetic grace and artisitc mastery. Chronology has little place in teh recounting of bit and pieces of dialogue. Every paragraph is like a correctly answered question by a classmate that you knew, but were hesitant about raising your hand. Malik gets the credit for describing ever day epiphanies and descriptions of love.
With aloof intimacy, Malik uses the physical body to describe teh ways in which humanity digests very day joy and pain.

You really wanna know how i feel about this book? Your book. About that, you should know it's a love affair. It started with a bottle of Rioja and a bowl of store-bought, no butter popcorn. I moved to the back porch and to the front stoop, to my bed and back to the couch. And cried.
It's the moments you pull perfectly from that mess of a kitchen drawer, finding a double A battery among old rolls of tape and loose paper clips, years-old sharpened pencils and magnets with pictures of your face- an older version of a younger you.
It makes me say, yea, I may love you and maybe we'll be married in ten years but then you'll come home on a SUnday afternoon, sweaty from a weekly bike ride with a bike group, like an adult fraternity yielding instant friends. I'll be making coffee for you and have a psychological moment with the pause of real time, moves so slow because my whole world just crashed around me. (and that's the scariest thing in the world)
To put it in other words, i read some of your book and listened to a child play a Steinway Brothers piano. Beginner's hesitance. That lingering, unsure sound of a note played. Am I actually hearing what I hear, the shadows of a note made me want to die, made me think of memories, fading in frozen time.
And now, after all this, I have heartburn from my turkey sausage decision at the Hollywood Diner on 6th Ave. I wa s a vegeatarian once but now I chose the Number 2 for it's patriotic promise. Or greasy ease, Easy like Sunday Morning, like that song you put on Michal's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1. The mix I listened to on the floor, rugburns and red pillows. I shaved my legs every day to be smooth for you. But you were late and that's OK. Because I don't bother with razors much these days. Fuck American freedom, I want French liberation in every strand of hair. Because the woman who wants romance, had it once before. Whimsical and unsafe, uncertain, as frustrating as realizing a perfect reunion was just a dream. My bed was once made of rose pedals and soft goodbye kisses at dawn. My wrist was a charm bracelet of dancing moons and, shit, I loved you so damn much.

I met her when I was a vegan
Her brown skin and black hair told me she liked the water
Her towel gave it away and she swam to me
Heart pouring over cafeteria salad bar crunch
In awe of her honesty
And purity
And open arms
Like an older sister I wanted to hold your hand
And do backflips and the breast-stroke

falling asleep to music like i did when i was traveling. it makes you forget the inconveniences of a night spent alone...

James,
A name
strong enough
for The Fathers Of...
Like the Father of Soul,
And you, Father of the Block.
Father Of A First Family
Family of Firsts
With unquenching thrist
For Corner Liqueor
But sounds of your watchguard eyes
Chaperone a sober scripture
Louder than the sound of sirens and stereos
You walk
We know ...??????

things you can't tell the difference between with your eyes closed and your rational mind drifting to sleep:
the sound of a lawnmower somewhere outside
and
a swarm of bees flying towards you

beads of sweat
like rain on a rooftop
chimneys closed fro the season
rown of red brick stacks remind me of mary poppins
im thinking of an old love
when the new is slow coming
ill think of you, thinking of me
or her, the one
against her ill never compare
against your chest
your heart will beat for a past love
our breath aligning, our hearts out of sync
adn im thinking of moving back to this muggy city
amidst all these memories of curly black chest hair
stuck to me in the summers heat

2AM
It's raining
Drops on pavement
the reflection of the street post in the street from the light of the moon and the street lamps- catches my eye
my shade is mostly shut with a few inches opened to the night's life
im looking onto a world i was not invited to see,
telephone wires stretch from one side of Pennington rd to the other
dipping in the middle, like a tightrope
cars parked and silent, sleeping like their drivers
am i alone?

i wonder what i used to do when the night was too silent to sleep-
max, im sorry. for thinking i could live in the moment and wanting more when it was convenient for me
i meant what i said about you being gentle
i'm sick of .com's
i miss the old friends i don't see and don't recognize the ones i do
i miss my grandmother, but can't cry for her anymore (it's been years)
i want to be back in that floating space when all i had to do was order a sangria, in spanish
i will be back in dc,
i cried to my oldest friend the night before her wedding just like the tears i cried to my sister, the nigth before hers
i wish i deserved to be a bridesmaid
my mom sold my car- that old car that came with a work-ethic and an ego

blue tango
in paris
to the north east
im close to you
i feel your breath
beneath a blue constume
you wait for me
benaeth the weeping whimpers of a willow
above cobblestone and this nights rain
you wait

Dear Soriah

Tia, Hombre, Amiga,
Sister Soriah:
Like five points of a star
We were bright
Like un mar de nubes cradling the moon
We were soft
Like a mescla of Canarian spanish, English, Itallian and Catalan
We were diverse
Dance Dance Dance
Like the wine that streams through our blood
Estamos contento

Weve gone and locked otuselves
once again,
In teh four cornered company
of dear friends.
Singing in a foreign tongue
Cups in "salud" with Canary rum
Laughing, we Dance.
Take a funny photo on her lap
My hand, in a peace sign-
And we laugh
And we laugh

Lost my journal in Lanzarote...

It,s funny, we can talk bhudism and sit cross legged while we commiserate about the woes of american capitalism infiltrating even the corners of this las palmas life. but... put a cup of rum in our hands, and a cigarette in your mouth? And the party has begun, my friend.

cigarette ashes fall
on our heads
from apartments above
and my dreams area now in black and white
orange flames and my dreams are black and white

I was born Jewish
But Karma is my religion.

(To be read next to my painted tree)

Swaying Branches of Burning flame
Blow curious Winds
Through our mountainous stature.
Lighter than we thought,
We waver with every whispered breath
Two, like self-awareness
We Stand
On fertile ground, reminded
Of all things mortal

And with barefeet?
We Speak
And in a solar tongue?
We pray.
And in lunar rhythm?
We dance.

Inventory of a Workshop

Inventory of a Workshop

A Blank canvas like infant purity
Dusty paintbrishes like elderly wisdom
An ax like your grandfathers hand
Old front doors like a blank scrap book
Screwdrivers like crayola crayons
Wet paint like morning dew
Nails of plenty like the salt of the sea
Rusting sheet metal like shades of an orange sunset
Mismatched gloves like an odd left shoe
A chainsaw like a murder mystery
Cans of paint, dripping like sweet honey from the corners of your mouth
Alphabetically organized, pen labeled drawers like an Indian spice cabinet
Masks like the burden of fear
Stacked buckets like procrastination
Rusting chain like forgotten promises
A Drill like the hole left in your heart
Blueprints of a sculpture, like your baby´s first steps
Stone walls like a fairytale
Cement floors like a Decemeber ice sckating rink
Hilos, sargentos, colas, alicantes, tornillos, llaves, alambres, gomas, brocas, martillos, discos, rodillos, espatulas, pinceles
A book of poems
A photo of you and your dog
Music like a beating heart
Life like seasons
And love like the story of two people who fell for eachother, the mountains, the son they created and the art of it all.

Generation Mp3

OK, so we've all heard it before: those of us who are Mp3 collectors, with library's of tens of thousands, don't really appreciate music. How can we when 60% of the quality is missing, (so i've heard, over and over) how can our (unrefined) ears really hear the umph behind that booming system? Because, 'it takes more than a boomin' system, to make me flip and listen,'* says the pushing-40, hip hop connoisseur. On one hand I'm bitter when I show up to a party with my I-pod in hand and I get grief about 'the old days.'So many hip-hop heads are complaining about the new wave of digital DJing, with echoing nostalgia for the times when DJing entailed a back-breaking effort, schlepping crates of records from house to car to bar and back. Much like the folks sitting near the 'beat konducting'** of DJ Emskee at Black Betty in BK; so graceful were the transitions from song to song. And I agree, having been approached for a reggae gig four days before the party, with the most superficial knowledge or reggae music, given the right anmount of time (three days?) I downloaded enough songs to throw a 'jammin' party, with a little help from my friends- torrent and traktor DJ. On the other hand, (the hand that holds my I-pod nano,) is my 1985 birthmark. The years I came to know music, CD's were on the rise and crate digging was a hobby of the past. Before I knew it, I was using words like 'Mp3' and 'digital import' before I could tell you what that even meant. The next minute, records were a thing of the past, and only in the past two years has reintroduced itself, to me, that is. Putting blame aside, I think we can all agree that the music medium most accessible in your coming-of-age years, is what you are most likely to use/seek/rely on if you are not consciously seeking a medium of the past. So enough with the attitude, Mr. my ten-year collection-takes all. Yes, you have walls shelved with vinyl, enough to throw a party 'like it's 1999'.*** But give the youngsters some time. We need those ten years to collect, to make pilgrimages to cities in search of that 'perfect drum lit, cuz that's how it is when you're into this shit.'****
Maybe we can learn from one another? Replace this 'rap battle' with a mutual, inter-generational communication. After all, isn't that what true hip hop is about? Working with what we have, sharing new technology with old wisdom? All we 'need is one mic.'***** Let's learn from our roots and 'come together, right now, over me.'

* Ultra Magnetic MC's
** Reference to Madlib's "Beat Konducta"Series
***Prince
****Madlib on Quasimoto's 'Raw Addict Pt. 2.'
**** Nas

life is like a series of chance encounters. depending on how willing you are to stray the beaten path. to beat your own and not analyze your footprints too intensely.
it is french toast on a snowy morning.

we walked around new york, visiting old places that looked so boring a second time around.
they were fun those nights that started off just you and I, and ended up with half a dozen more, on a rooftop apartment, sunrise over manhattan, the stuff woody allen is made of. that manhattan charm. only in his movies its only two people, a beautiful woman and a funny looking man. i imagine those women were on coke and speed. their doctors prescribed the speed and their friends- the coke. i'll drink another beer. those moments conjure blank thoughts- do we split up? you're already sitting on his lap, maybe he'll take you to his Astoria apartment and i'll go with his friend. no. we take the bus back instead. barely concious of the long trek ahead. the daylight feels like a gentle hug and we manage our way uptown. 179th and broadway. buyers and sellers of the night hang around the station for the straggling B and T crowd, we are so grudgingly referred as. but we ignore them and think about the entourage of accents with whom we talked, danced, drank, smoked, fell on the floor in a youthful attempt to be stacked upon one another, laughing all the while...
my new york.

theory

i have a theory about you
your ears are the window to your soul
you used to get ear infections, two, three a month
until they diagnosed the problem right
i have a theory about you
your heart is the palpitating melody
harmonizing with itself
melodious and high above this ground

my baby sister

remember how you used to stick your belly out?
Just tsanding around
Like a balloon i watch you expand and contract
you breathe loundly, little one.
remember that time i came to visit you in your first apartment?
the first night you spent over the toilet
a bad falafel
and i take you to the clinic
where they don't speak english
and fight for you in a foreign tongue
didn't do you much good so we went to the hospital
more fighting, this time i fight my own tears
as the IV is stuck in your arm
remember this morning?
you wrote me a text message
told me you were on your way to the ER
i told you that you better tell me the next time you were sick
because the last time was my big gig and you hid it
so i wouldn't worry
but this time you tell me promptly
and i want to speak to the doctors
tell them that this is my baby sister they're treating
i want to hold your hand
it would be cold
long nails, painted a deep red i imagine

Tribute to Andre 3000

Thank you for letting me study you closely
For allowing me to follow your lovely logic
As you lustfully twist your words
Into tantalizing metaphor
And you help me to describe a night
When my tanqueray tunneled vision
Has got me on a one way mission
To convert my sober mind
With every splash of tonic
And it's ironic
That I really am seeing circles like some Audi,
Yet in all the confusion
I'm still the queen of this court
So play your part
Cuz these girls are smart,
These girls are smart.
Cue to Continue conducting imitated interaction
And in Andre Fashion
I'll walk it out the door
With failed attempts at reason with mild-mannered men
So in my mind i flirt with treason as I look too long at the female friend
Cuz these men will use all three wishes
Just for some kisses
Just for a five-fingered, manicured hand
Digging deep into their backs
In the backseat of a 2009 make and model
But in the words of 3000,
I could give a dam 'bout your car
But then I would be
If it was considered a classic
Before the drastic change in production
When cars were meal,
Instead of plastic

Genesis

A seven Day reality
The Genesis of my five fingered bible
The new, newer old Testament
Testament to my self-titled irony
the embryonic start of me
Is just the beginning of a Week'

Of every week I feel weak
In my knees and kneel down to pray.
In theory, because I fear Thee
In reality, I just freak myself out.

Day One:
It's hard to dissect the core of me
When seeds and flesh fall somewhere behind me
Leaving pieces one by one and two by two
And Yea, I built the ark-
With the hole on the bottom
So one by one and two by two
I drowned.
Drowned but rescued as I shine my light
And I will let there be light:
Day One.

Day Two:
Cameras roll and I'm frozen in place
trying to believe in a human race
That gives me more than these things I use
Man's gift of substance abuse
Yea, it's my choice, so I accept the gift
and When these mics are muted I can't speak my piece
So I'll forever hold my piece
Until an angel came down from heaven to batlle this beast
and whispers to me
"Spaek up my child, the angels are here my dear"
Let there be heaven:
Day Two

Day Three:
Gets harder to remember the First tImes
The First time I took a bus to school,
Too cool to cry
So a Waterproof mask I'll paint,
Fits like a glove to my face
Wear it like my own skin
Until the day I find it shattered into Six Million pieces of ashed ancestry
Picking up the pieces as my salt water sea runs behind me.
Day Three.

Day Four:
With three days passed
I'm left unprotected, unarmed
For the night you said goodbye
And did this heart much harm.
A stinging prick pumps his drug directly through my veins
And his exit wound burns deeper than his grand entry.
Overdose on love and you leave me in withdrawal
I'm ageless and only able to crawl
Followng the horizon with my eyes on
You.
But instead of you I was greeted by the sun,
Two greater stars lit up my night sky:
Day Four.

Day Five:
The day I'm left to listen to my own absence
And I'd rather drink a bottle of Absinthe
Then watch the world forget me.
So instead I fly on the wings of an angel,
Wishing it were a dove.
But jealosy is a dangerous love,
Because the same music that soothes us,
Also makes us cry.
My tears fro him, yours for me.
Birds of a feather, unrecognizable to one another.
Day Five.

Day six:
The day I welcomed the rules and brake them
Before the night fell upon my guilt ridden soul
An yea, I broke that cardinal rule more than once
Every time I neglect
To check
If the dead animal on my plate was killed proper-ly
Kosher-ly.
Day Six.

Day Seven:
I'm resting in revered mimicry.
Sleeping under the bright lights of my computer screen
Only wishing for a happy dream.
Guess I'm too late
When I wake
From a sleepeless night
And it's begun again, Day One.

I don't want to leave DC!

but if you ask my friends about the garden of eden...
they'll tell you a story
of two people
the way love should be
but what if things weren't the right way
and there were three
or even more
like five or four?
how would the world divide our love
when i love him and you love me and he loves her and she loves you
it would be a shame to wash upon the shores of eden
not knowing what to expect, as if your mind had gone and beaten
you to the border
and you order
one love
but get two with you meal
and honestly you do feel
for both
and the world didn't like the new divisions
blurry in their visions
no one knew who to belong to
and where to rest their weary minds
in these tribulating times
nostalgia calls and wants the time back
there were two
made of one body, the bones of a feather flock together
and three's company and a crowd
this party of three gets al too loud
for the truth seeking realities
of just two celestial bodies
two stars shine bright
and three clouds the black night
and when we're lying in bed its too bright
so ill ask him to turn off the light and he'll ask her to ask me to keep it on.
the bottom line of this song
is my plea for my pair
two pieces of a puzzle that fit only with each other
and love only one another.

I dreamt you got a buzz cut
then crawled into my bed
wrapped your arm around me
and i rested on your head
i tasted your skin with mere anticipation
we never got to kiss
and in real life
i'll miss that dream
but even more our unrequited kiss.

Listening to a new kind of music
The kind that makes me feel different
A little stranger than the day before
Fighting the mundane
Is giving me a migraine
And i'm grinding
My teeth at night
The new music is giving me a fright
And i just might
Stick my velcro pieces together
And go back to the day before
I felt Strange

Its hard to remember the first day of the creation
When all of my “firsts” transpired prior to the unscripted start
Of me.
A bit easier to remember that start.
A night tattooed in my senses
When my “priors” were crimes against all things innocent.
This start of me
might be
a night back in 2004
two decades post day 1
With a fresh id, wrong name, right birthdate
Born a year too late in 2004
a street corner on the lower east side
Christie and Delancey.
Street Names with friendlier dispositions
Than the friends who by that time were testing inappropriate positions
Entangled in Men with names like Johnnie walker and Jamison
Black label never did much for me
Were walking fast by now,
Until we pass Five men on that east side corner and I stop
Ten hands on flipped tin garbage
Hit, struck by the mood
Beats and rhythm call me in,
Call me name
As they call to me
Asking for a line
A rhyme
And im shy
them a few
and know this is the beginnig of a great fiendship
On this night of the Start of me.

December 26th 1985

On the west side highway
Driving home
first night of life and all its stimulations
tired and confused at age 24 hours
in the backseat in the family’s blue, 1984 Volkswagen
one year my senior, it knows how to rock me to sleep
humming a lullaby with its engine, rocking
I fight heavy, fluttering eyelids all the way across the George Washington’s Bridge
Carrying me to all my firsts I come to know in 23 years.

how do i

how do i capture a thought
on a bus
in the shower
how do i tame the urge to take a drastic measure
when i'm nervous
when i'm looking at a picture of a girl who's more successful, alot skinnier
like that means something
how do i make it not mean something
but it does for some reason
how do i measure happiness
they tried to, in the 50's
and out of it made a perfume commercial
about love
about two people in black and white riding a horse
a flowing dress and a six pack
how do i forget that
when i want you
you back away
a pendulum on which we forever swing on opposite sides

the other night a close girlfriend of mine claimed that part of the reason for some perpetuating ways of this man's world we live in comes from the 'innate' differneces in how women overcome obstacles or reach a goal. She went on to say that when a woman has a goal in mind it is often more difficult to reach this goal than let's say, her male counterpart, because she is multitasking even in her mental thought processes in scoping the future terrain/course of action. For example, in my case, getting a job after college might be clouded with worries and thoughts about juggling other responsibilities of mine instead of being 100% focused on the major goal ahead. Not to imply that men aren't capable of mulit-thinking/tasking... Actually, I wasn't implying a thing, since this wasn't my theory to begin with...
Just a thought.
A thought that came back to me as I hear creaking floorboards above me, my (female) roommate tiptoes above, in the wee hours.At least I'm not alone. There's three of us under this roof. I'm here, 'in bed' with a screen shining bright, instead of perhaps the shining stars that are gleaming through my (male) roommates silent bedroom.

in my last two weeks in dc
ive been calling everyone i know
just to request a face to face
maybe an hour of talking...
sometimes im afraid that i talk only for my own sake, for gaining some kind of validation
because im scared mostly, of my bold decisions
not that im all that bold
it's relative really.
i can call myself a coward but then the part of me that doesn't believe that is called to the front of my brain to defend the rest of me, and here i am, perpetuating the stamp of approval to which i've grown addicted...
i was talking to miriam, a friend of a friend
and i was telling her that i don't know exactly why im going to spain
she asked me to hold the line while she searched for a quote she recently came across that fit my situation-
something like 'something calls you, a creative request for your presence, and you follow it, blindly perhaps. and a while later you can appreciate your decision, but only a longer while after that can you really understand why you were pulled in that direction to begin with.' and that's true for so many things.

i love it
hate
it
and i can't stop scratching
and it won't stop itching
nails dig deeper
and it's ruining me
will ruin me
will rain on me
won't you rain on me?
me. camouflaged under this red bulb,
blend with red patches
of allergy
an allergic reaction to bad habits.
after a good day?
i spit in my own face.

sleeping with you, bright light
screen of plenty
i feel empty
though.
i'll watch a movie,
re-run-
and think how
we ran
in different directions
now, stagnant
this night, i know you
wide eyed in non-waking hours
red venom crawls under my skin
and i lay
white as an apple's flesh
i pray this night finally bites
pierce the skin
or i'll peel it off myself

apology

to the one who's shadow i traced,
across the horizon
as the sun
your silhouette chased:
forgive me.

to the one who gave the cues,
at dinner.
and with the little one you glued
us together.
when family suddenly meant 3+1+1,
instead of the whole number we thought as ours.

to the one who's arm caressed my back
and collected the tears
when at thriteen i thought i wouldnt stop
crying.

to the one who's laugh
is wholehearted and
to the one whose heart is whole

thank you for being my oder sister.

i've bled.
i cut open and left a trail of blood for you
to follow
but you got lost
in a corner office

a song plays on repeat
so you can't recognize the beginning from the end
and you got lost

and woke
two years later
listening to that same note.

i smell like baby's skin
for some reason

for some reason
someone shed their scent

and now i'm made of particles of others
in this body

its been three months since weve spoken and i thught maybe his feeling would have subsided by now
but no. im listening to lauren hill 'nothing even matters' on repeat. crying in the dark like i used to,
once they were tears in your arms.
but its been so long
maybe im just still in love with the idea of you, who's to say that i even know you anymore.
that i would even recognize you.
but i dont believe that. at all.
i want to cry enough tears to make a river straight to mexico. i would build a rafter and float to you.
'cuz nothing even matters...
im afraid that im going to be running until im back in your arms.

Looking down onto a green cloth
Of Spring moth and dirt
(I wonder, are your eyes are even open?)
Shifting confusion
Opposite our simple, detangled spool of kisses.
I won't request your presence for now,
I will dream you up
As you
Heal me
And Spin me around
In my white summer dress.

The sweet taste of a rare memory-
Descend upon me!
Heal me
Because recently
Hospital beds have been my inspiration.
Sanitized hands shine under flourescents
Lighten-Ing microscopic flaws
(How I wish for a G-d-sent strike of light,
A real charge of electricity,
Atmospheric reminder of my mortality)
But as I face my immortal fate,
Naked under this recycled hospital gown,
Helpless against the white coats and wheelchairs.
I
Fall
Into one
Before I fall for your words
Or into them.
Im crippled when I'm with you
I'm numb when I'm without
You,
Disguised in your readied speech.
Heal Me
Like you did the night we met
Our frozen moment-
Fossilized desire for you
My fire for you
Our raw, rare flame
Red like the steak
I cooked for you
Or the one
I placed
On my blacks and blues
Reveal your healing hands
Because I can't trust your eyes
As they've lied
Again.

Tempted by the fall
We stand tall
Or try.
In reality we are
Listening
Limping
Towards tops of imprinted impressions...
Infallible storytelling are the forgotten fossil,
Layers of sediment
Preserved remains of useless lessons learned
Hints to a life lived.

Nostalgia

I liked the silver forks better
When they were out of their drawers
Beautiful in their disarray

Now,
Mummified in their blue plastic coat,
They feel constricted.

Why
Must you Organize?
Distinguish between prongs?
And dips?
And Blades?

Raw and Rare

Raw and Rare

Nothing is as it was
As it is
As it should be.
Strange as an ice-capped horizon with
Pastel pinks and yellows forming a descending arch
Vanilla beans sprinkle
As powdered sugar dusts over
The Mountain top.
The top of this mountain rests
Above buried, unheard sound
Veiled and untouched
Cones of frozen earth
Stand weary of the ice
Inviting our knight and shining Gravity
Down.

Ode to Obama

Carrying me with swift moments
Into the movement
Of the new.
Fresh faces, like covergirls
I'm in awe like you are the 8th wonder
Of the thundering parade.
Tshirts with your face,
This city is laced with your spirit and your voice
In all the noise
Yours is softest
And closest to my ear.

Inverted Moon

A Full moon floats between black music,
Scripted stars.
Nodding synchronously,
Rotating heavy eyelashes.
Imagined dark seas of black liquid life.
But that was long ago,
In a time when the world was fantastically bigger,
A time when imagination and science competed for a crowned truth and imagination won.
A time when the dark pools of lethal basaltic lava were thought to be inviting pools of water.
Today we know better, we know smaller, we know science-
I know that the same moon dances on this earth, inside of her,
With the synchronized movement of her breath,
Between her stomach and the lining of her belly,
Bypassing the hollow inversion
Where her uterus once lived healthily
And happily willing to expand its walls and house new life.
Fear of abandonment,
Of further hollowing of her insides,
She moves further into herself.
Cradling empty space,
Rocking the notion of a grand finale,
A shooting star in her black night.

Twilight

Twilight

Like a drug, i open my veins and invite you in.
We can know each other,
Get high on one another,
But when you start to fade,
To change colors-
Yellows to red to a darker shade of blue,
I travel the untraveled, transient winds
To find.
To lose.
Last night I found fears I never knew I had
I dreamt the cells in my body were multiplying by the millions.
That same day,
Alkylating, anti-neoplastic agents were pumping through the veins i opened up for you,
and the ones before you.
And i was left helpless
in my hospital bed
knowing that
My weakness-
was a product of selfish blindness
of the choice I made between
gold and coal.
i watched my hand reach out to all things that glittered.
but as the saying goes...
your golden entrance, upstaged you silver-plated exit!
And if I could reach out and touch you, feel you in the flesh
I would choose the fantasy.
The over-the-moon,
man-on-the-moon fantasy that rears it's head during twilight.
Those fleeting moments
Between day and night
that slip through my hands
like quicksand.
I do what I please in those moments.
Consequences fall to the gutter as they themselves question their place in this 24 hour, bookended experience.
Products of day or night?
I ask myself the same,
Fearless in the face of misguided deed.

In a world where nation lifts up sword against nation
I’m opting out
because It’s not about
Fighting the inevitable
Or trying to hold on
to the minute hand
as it drags my feet in the sand
when watching the clock is as eternal as the mortal battle against the
immortal
Inevitability of time.
And The time we do spend in this world
is characterized by demons eyes
Conducting one mans sword to another mans chest
And minutes are reversed
from present moments of knowing you
To a context of past tense
Leaving me with memory of knowing you
I knew you
When u were alive
Before you were survived
By your two year old son, Moishie
Because the race against time was rigged
Two men playing god
Pulled the battery from the clocks belly
And its quiet in this moment of solitude
Blood on the floor,
seconds beckon
To return to that audible beckoning
Tick tock.
And I knew you when you were alive
On that humid, monsoon eve
At about five
We knocked on your door
And fell like worn travelers
Onto your floor
And into your smell
Of Challah bread
And our family You fed
And the four of us you led
To rooms with made-up beds
And asked us to rest
On your chest
Not literally
But figuratively
And honestly
You were kind
With others in mind
At all times
Rabbi- you arrived
At about nine
After the synagogue services that you revived
Had ended.
And Rivki, you waited
For your husband and your guests
As if
You had been waiting your whole life
To give us a slice
Of that challah bread.
In a world where nation lifts us sword against nation, you gave us refuge.
Amen.

You Never Can Tell

For five years I loved him
Outloud
In earshot
I shot him a glance
That pearced his heart
And left a permanent mark
We were in critical care in the ICU
When I saw him
Everywhere.
Swimming in one another’s love
Even the blood we shared
Shouted life or death and life and death in the rhythmic pumping of our joint heart
But You never can tell
What you can’t tell about a person
Even with adjoining plastic tubes in our blue green veins.
You see,
You Wanna Talk about Guns?
I once caressed his hand with
The black mess
That was left
From cleaning the
barrel,
carrying handle
echad, shtaim, shalosh!
…and that’s the count
so for now
im taking this machine
this m-16
apart
Only to Put it back together again?
Like that story about humpty dumpty
When he fell off that wall
Or just went plain a-wol
Or was a cigarette break from his shift
At the mall?
Who can tell-
When you cant tell what you can tell about a person-
Because the weapon in this hand
Is no toy
It’s the real mcoy
and boy
you disintegrated
Into one million pieces
And now there no body where body once stood
Because you never can tell what you cant tell about a person
Because the one thing I cant tell
Is time
In this rhyme
And record,
When its on the rewind
And the dj takes it back
Just like that
And gives us a second chance
For romance
And you never can tell what you cant tell about a person
Because I thought the first one
Would be trustworthy
And I know im wordy
But let me make it clear that you
Just
cant
tell.

Metro Route 90

It rains in that moment of quiet
When I lie and tell myself I won’t judge
(fitting for this Day of Judgment night)
I over-stimulate on a simple walk,
Soberly searching for objective answers.
I am the branch of a tree and I welcome harsh wind and soft rain,
With my roots buried and protected
Underground and underneath sidewalk,
Few things can find their way to me, subjectify-me.
Across the Duke Ellington Bridge, the 90 Bus route, by foot.
Upside-down, orange-grease stained Paper plates, get out of my way!
Humble in their weight,
I watch them shift tectonic plates from the burden of these bodies,
Faceless in fleeting moments of this city’s life.
Sitting on this ground you wave a drunken hand in my face,
And I think,
‘You should respect me
Because I’ve been here longer.’
But the only way to know that is to love this city,
And the only way to love this city-
If you want to love it at all,
Is by the rhythm of your own footsteps,
Move right, left, right, dodging and embracing.
I’m getting wet.
I will pass the two loving hands in front of me and offer my own to the warm fall breeze and rain,
And walk faster.
And the man at the bus stop talks about his non-parents,
Betrayal,
Pain,
And the strength to overcome challenges he didn’t ask for,
As if the Man put Roadblocks on his path the moment his head saw the fluorescent light he should soon come to know as natural,
He sends riddles with his eyes,
Asking me to marry?
Jumping into his arms I say yes! And we elope that very night…
Just kidding,
I used to believe in moment’s love,
Until two years have passed and I can only hope in love that lasts longer than that.
You might be the exception- you overgrown town,
The roots of me entangled in your world-below.
Above ground- Raindrops on my head.
And I wrap my pashmina
Like my great-great grandmother did
In her city
That city she cold never love,
She could only leave.
Two refugees from a city that wouldn’t love them back
Because at the moment of their birth,
Some He with a capitol ‘H’ put Stumbling blocks in front of them,
Them! The ones born without eyes?
And they wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘One wife and a gun,’
As the story goes.
My star of David story.
And it rains.

Bleeding for the Anocostia

I dreamt you rolled your sleeves
To bare flesh I didn’t recognize,
Your arm I once knew so well!

In those days we were linked,
Mind, body , spirit
In Sync.
Our blood pumped
side by side, mixed
potion
Flowed into one red, heart-shaped ocean

But the flesh you bore last night
Was unrecognizable.

Red vertical lines had your arm in a chokehold.
Red mourning plight.
I had no words.
Like a lonely bird
I thought of you,
Alone,

No one to lift you out of your drowning.
No one to save your arm, covered in skin so pure
Like snow white.
I should have known something so red and sweet would poison
You
Silent
All
The
while.

But if you would have screamed!
I would have rowed the red river to your heart and rescued you.
I scream for both of us and wake myself up, sweat soaked, in bed.
I dress and bike to the river,
Expecting deep red lines webbing themselves around her so that
Beauty is disguised, life- invisible.
But there is no red, only concrete shades of tan
A fishing net
Black wire
Concrete paths
Brown dirt spots the cement playground
At least a red sea would have been a sign of recent life
Recent cycles,
So predictable, only man can break
Only man can tear our linked arms apart.
Only man can make you ugly
Can poison your purity.

waiting for a letter

you would think this would get better 

and i'm sorry 

for waiting

for waiting

for wailing

for wishing

it's just when

this wire comes between us

black wire 

like tight rope over fire

a shaky walk

was yesterday the day it was easy?

what happened?

was yesterday our anniversary?

I forget what i'm celebrating! 

i fall

flesh bruises

black and blue on white

i know this bruise is permanent

like a tattoo, or a battle scar.

Sitting at Big Bear

So much on my mind

at least I don't have roaches on my mind as I recently moved out of the roach box and into a beautiful house on Florida and First

I'm so sick of men, I really am, why has every single one been such a disappointment?! (Except one of course, to which the disappointment came in the circumstances themselves, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows)

I never realized how much I relied on noise to keep me company-

without a TV or internet, there are no familiar voices to fill that thick fall-evening silence,

i need friends, so many friends to be here, men, women, eyes, hands, 

what made regina go to that protest just to rub up against strangers?

busy busy, books and dreams

i have to close me eyes or lose my thoughts in other people's for a moment.

VCB-2

I saw it again,

and just like last time, it made me crave red wine

and conversation about life

and love

and so we did

a back and forth

about fear

about living life for you or for others

about depth, about surface

interactions

pleasant mounts and morgans

should I get a cat for these roaches?

should I go to law school?

should I buy that second amstel light?

should I be so scared of graduating?

should I still be missing you?

should I go back to san francisco?

should I ignore your phone calls?

should I shower now or later?

should I eat these egg-less pancakes?

should I care that you didn't say good night?

should I buy single or double ply?

should I know what i want by now?

vicky christina barcelona

as the intoxicating penelope cruz puts it, 

does christina have 'chronic dissatisfaction?'

or in the words of javier bardem (melt...) has she just yet to find what she's looking for?

and so she tries and tastes and loves until her head catches up to her heart

and with no regrets- she's on a new path

different- but carrying the last one with her to the next.

My Blury eyes

Cloud the 20-20 vision 

I have of you

And there you go again

The dreamcatcher couldn't even catch you

Flying by

Like fast cars

Headlights make way to hindsight

And the if-only's

And the blue moon

Is the same one we swam under 

And it's pregnant at it's roundest

And I'm fine

Because it's silly to think you wouldn't follow me

Into my night sky.

i have yet to figure out appropriate roommate etiquette...

at what point in the oh-so wee hours of the morning does it become ok to say 

'shut the fuck up?'

or is it better to politely step out into the hallway, try to get your roommates attention, (who is at present preoccupied in a pillow fight with a nameless girl from adams morgan...) and ask if he could 'please turn down the music-'

i go with the latter, but really it's just  is just a euphemism for the former... in other words, i really asked you to shut the fuck up, i just happened to say the words 'can you turn it lower?'

but what does all that matter anyways on a sunday afternoon when you are too tired to leave your bedroom, and not because you went out in your new BCBG Paris heels, but because all that came out of your mouth last night was timid euphemism, three hours too late...

and just when i thought dc was small

he showed me this spot

looking over the potomac

like my spot in jersey looking over the bridge

where i go to think

cuz for some reason when cars look that small on the bridge 

they're really that small, for a few moments

and speaking of moments

we saw a shooting star

and i swear it came from no where

it just came

from talking about moments

we made it fall so we could remember that moment for a long time

and it was so peaceful

just two people

nothing more

nothing less

no yesterdays or tomorrows 

the only way to just be

hearts and clothes

why do so many people come in and out of your life so fast? 

it makes me want to lock myself in my room sometimes to guarantee a non-meeting of sorts...

because you know what happens- it's simple logic:

if you have love in your heart 

and you wear your heart on your sleeve, or as someone once said to me ('keep my screen door open') 

then the chances that some of your heart may end up on the sleeve of another? 

are high

and if they do end up on another's sleeve, then there's no getting it back

then again, i can't have it both ways because, as i started this blog off- aren't we all walking around this city looking for some intimacy? for someone to rub shoulders with and exchange pieces of your heart?

District of Connection

sometimes it's so small- a big town you might say...

'jewish geography' doesn't compare.

TO BE a woman OR NOT TO BE a woman?

shouldn't we start calling all young girls- 'little women?' lousia may alcott was on point and i propose we follow suit. because when exactly do we graduate form 'girlhood?' - the time old question i guess. 'coming-of-age,' adolescence, all these names for something that may not even exist. 

it's like twilight- the day's over, and you know it because the sun's setting but it's also too light for stars. but do those ambigous hours mean there's an actual time called 'twilight,' or is it just because we've named it and so we think it does? (ok, philosophical I know, but if you can follow that- continue reading...) because at 'the end of the day' its just 24 hours of clocks ticking, church bells ringing...

if 'little girls' were told from the start that they were 'women', we would put up with less crap- no more cat calls because i'm no little girl (no cat either, no 'snowflake- yes i got that one yesterday...) i'm a woman! the future mother of your children, so don't mess- at six, sixteen or sixty... 

i thought about this as michelle and i made friends with brianna- six years old with a neon green swimsuit at the pool on 14th and arkansas. holding her breath underwater, braids afloat, all  to show us how well she could swim. and then making circles around us to listen to our conversation? get our attention? get a glimpse into what it's like to be so grown? so womanly? well brianna- you don't have to make circles around us to figure all that out- you are your own best friend, role model, woman. don't take any crap form anyone because you are so beautiful in that neon green suit.

if you let it- this city can be so romantic. well i think summer nights are romantic anyway, and if you happen to be picnicking in meridian hill park at ten pm, your chances for romance increase-significantly. 

and if there is a blonde woman with a guitar singing joni mitchell? well then you know two little girls with blonde curls will be dancing to their mother's song.

and you will want to twirl with them- especially in that light- where the street-lamps hug the trees.

and maybe a familiar face will appear- and you will shake his hand because you have to- because he looks like someone you made breakfast for once-

eggs and toast, a walk to the beach where you dug your feet in the sand and listened to his story-

that was a long time ago, although you're not be that old- looking at these stars makes you feel wrinkled with age.

Pennies in a Fountain

What happens when you throw a penny in the fountain at Dupont Circle? I'm a whitness to teh facts- drunk man wades in fountain to collect coins.

So i'm sitting by the fountain listening to my soulful summer mix, reading the Style section of the Post. (Can you picture that? What a life I lead...) 

But the best thing about being there is my dinner date with Michelle- Udon Noodle Soup at Raku ($8) and because we're feeling extra cultured, we wander into Kramer Books- Of course I had t leave my Style section outside- tied up while I mingled inside the book store con Bloggers-with-Haircuts. But we didn't stay long- Post gets possessive over my attention span... 

something simple like the color of your son
or eyes, mine yellow, like fever high at none
heat "creep"s like tlc from above
who knew id be a "legend", days of fame and fun
like will smith alone in a city of one
"no more i love you's", annie said it best
swim through thick red syrup, clear white liquid, now rest
underwater, like ghost, invisible like hosts
of that virus. to think its just me under that suit
frontal lobe agrees, futile heart is ruth-
less, or ruth-more, either way this song's a toast
to maybe yes and maybe no- he loves me right, i love me most


'it's a girl'

(She will be your queen-
A Princess her daughter.)
Your spirit
Flows back and forth
up and down
in and out
as Her lungs rise and collapse
open and close
But what happens in that moment in between?
Before the collapse, after the rise-
Are you alone in this thought?
What matters now is to keep Breathing into those corners of Her earth
Although Her earth is corner-less
Her earth is a labyrinth
Of immortal mockingbird song
That move Her river's flow
What became of your love?
That hardening brown mud you dug up from the backyard-
You Plead! with time, to hold still- before it dries.
The world is bigger now than ever and it's rotation makes your head spin.
Catching up with time is possible only by counting Her rhythmic breath
Modest rhythm like Mount Sinai
A golden calf will never lead her astray.
She will be moved by the sky's treasure
She will sit atop the modest mountain conducting silver lightening with thundering strength.

http://www.dclibrary.org/dcpl/cwp/view.asp?a=11&q=569635

here is a link to my 'published' short story

The Survivor in Us All

I think that living on a budget- (which for some of us means flipping your apartment upside down for bus fare) is like getting in touch with survivor instincts-

it's too easy living off others (mom and dad?)

if we were meant to be parasites, we would have stayed five years old forever I guess...

I have graduated into animal-hood and joining the pack!

I'd crawl in a Hole, but They'd Follow...

I lie not when I tell you that on my walk back to the bus a man passed me dangling a dead rat-

not a mouse, (something I may have even sympathized for) no- a RAT...

The reason I was out and about so early to begin with was to feed my caffeine addiction, since I felt ostracized from my own kitchen and couldn't brew my own, the way I like it, for free, my flavor, the right amount of milk, no loud coffee orders being yelled about behind the bar- just me, my kitchen, my coffee...

what's up with tryst anyways- do people actually work there? or just stand around looking trendy? I know- it's been said before, but- I mean, really! I'm sitting at the bar for ten minutes before one of the nine thousand servers catch my fiery look of a stare and ask me what i want- two minutes later I'm wondering what it would cost to get a full cup of coffee. 

All in the Tribe

So I met my Jewish counterpart recently- I saw her last night, which was the second time we've ever met and people were telling us we were acting like best friends-

I get all 'planny' with people I'm excited about- like I know together we're powerful enough to take over the world and I just want to start- now!!

And some people can take my craziness for what it is- let the adrenaline runs it's course before I even out a bit-

And others? Well they freak I guess- did I mention this was mostly men?

You know- that other species that eats, breathes and does all the other actions to make it seem like they are part of the human race...

Me vs. Them

Talk about interactions in this city-

My first one of the morning consists of my usual exchange with them- a girly scream.

I guess this early it's like warming up your voice (for all the rest of the exchanges I will have with them throughout the day...)

They are quite the invasive ones- getting into my coffee pot- I give up at this point!

My roommate 'bombed' our kitchen but still makes me feel like I'm the crazy one, because- uhhh, i notice them? It's hard not to when you feel like you are sharing your kitchen with fifty other chefs,- well more like food critics; you cook, they eat what they like...

Not everything is about sex...

Mich-In-The-City was inspired by the oh-so inspirational hit TV show, Sex and the City; taking two forces and chronicling their interactions. Sex as one force- the city as the other. Because aren't we all walking around this city yearning for sex? Well not sex per-say, but some kind of intimacy? Let's get one thing straight before we continue, I may be the first use the term 'the city' when referring to DC (and not NY) but I guess I'm a pioneer like that-

So I will dedicate this blog to all interactions noteworthy- all encounters that make this city- 'the city.'