Sacrifices

In relapse, in repose
Ups and downs, yet that’s how it goes
Freedom don’t come cheap
To enjoy the awards you reap
One must take pause
Though thoughts force cause
Origin and destination
So we run on sans hesitation
How long can you keep runnin’
When you ain’t runnin’ for nothin’?

Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?
Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?

Through a window darkly
I am at peace hardly
With my life all humpty dumpty
Fallen apart in front of me
And I can’t seem to put it together again
Fractured, many pictures in one frame
Portraits different, even conflicting
My identity loosely forming
This is life in the making, makin’ a real mess
How or if it’ll fix up is anyone’s guess

Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?
Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?

Give up, get out, turn it loose
Before you wreck yourself and blow a fuse
My mind’s tellin’ me no
But my heart wants me to go
So I gotta gotta give it up
My knees are shakin’
But my feet are achin’
To walk, so I gotta gotta get out
My body wants to stay
But my spirit’s flown away
So I gotta gotta turn it loose
And for what troubles may come
I know I did what had to be done

Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?
Sacrifices must be made
For the soul’s longevity
And the price must be paid
What counts most at the finale?

Rush

Suddenly, I am submerged
As a rush of cold water runs over my head
Water fills my lungs
In a matter of minutes, no seconds, I’ll be dead

Suddenly, I am submerged
In this ocean of my youth
No land in sight
I am happy to see it fade, in truth

I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me

Suddenly, moments I had forgotten
They flash before my very eyes
All of my life, all it is worth
A few seconds, a mere drop in the well of time

Suddenly, these pains grow sharper
And each passing year I dread
As age come surging
Like a rush of cold water over my head

I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me

Suddenly, I walk into the depth
Weighed down by heavy rocks
Like that dark priestess a century before
Who could no longer bear the weight of her own thoughts

Suddenly, I am submerged
As a rush of cold water runs over my head
Water fills my lungs
In a matter of minutes, no seconds, I shall be dead

I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me
I am drowning
And no one can save me

I Wish I Could, But I Know I Can’t

To whom it may concern
I can only hope you understand
Though I did indeed yearn
I could not go through with it as planned
My mind did backflips and turns
But I found the thought I could not stand

It’s just getting too much fpr me to bear
Though in the morning, I will still be here

Deep sigh, I am not relieved
I’m tired of toughing it out
Just not tired enough to concede
This world can crush you like an ant
Oh, I wish I could, but I know I can’t

Laying here
It’s too painful to contemplate
All alone with my despair
It is the end I dream of and anticipate
Though it must wait, I can’t explain why
It’s some stubborn part of me
That refuses to die
Before finding harmony
So to hold on I must try

It’s just getting too much for me to bear
Though in the morning I will still be here

Deep sigh, I am not relieved
I’m tired of toughing it out
Just not tired enough to concede
This world can crush you like an ant
Oh, I wish I could, but I know I can’t

Just for Me

I don’t know what I want, I just know this ain’t it
I’ve never been able to be complacent
Only lonely, confused and bewildered
Perpetually in search and need of a spirit kindered
When my world seems to reject me
Cuz friends can’t love me like I need be
I want to lay my head down deadly

Now, it’s not all just self-pity
Only half, the other’s an attempt to be witty
To hide all the pain I feel
I try to numb it anyway that ain’t real
To deny my own inability to try
It’s better to be fucked up and high
Cuz I’m sugar free, oh so lonely

If no one wants me, I’d rather be alone
So I tell myself--and I disconnect the phone
But I ain’t foolin' nobody, and nobody even cares
We’re all alone in the end, with our hopes and fears
Hoping for love, afraid it’s useless
My age is apparent, I’m utterly clueless
I want something and someone just for me

Perry Donovan Does "Rehab"

INT. - NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT

An empty stage with nothing but a stool, microphone and a spotlight.

PERRY DONOVAN, late 40s, in an ill-fitting tuxedo, clearly drunk, stumbles onto the stage to faint applause.

PERRY DONOVAN
Hey, hey, hi, hey, hi, sup. How are you? How are things? Great to be here...wherever here is.
(aside)
Maury where are we?
(agitated)
God, again? You’re fired as my manager.
(beat)
Yes, you can still be my lawyer but I’m going to need to see some sort of degree in the near future. (beat)
Yeah, the University of Phoenix Online is fine.

HECKLER (O.S.)
BOO!!

PERRY DONOVAN
Fuck off! I mean...uh, see what you did, you big booer. You threw me off.

HECKLER (O.S.)
I wish they’d throw you off the stage, lush!

PERRY DONOVAN
There’s one every show. Why don’t you just get up here and try to do your little schtick for us, huh?
(beat)
Sit down! Security!
(aside)
What do you mean there’s no sec--I’m a damn star! I have an Emmy!
(beat)
No, daytime. And local.
(to AUDIENCE)
THIS song is by a fantastic new singer about a subject that’s very, very dear and close to me. Tony!

Poorly played piano opening.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS, loungey)
They try to make me go to REHAB (thank you)
I said NO, NO, NO.
Yes I been black but when I come back, NO, NO, NO.
I ain’t got the time
and if my daddy think I’m fine. Just try to make me go to REHAB--

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(to AUDIENCE)
And I’ll rip ya balls right off, sailor! Ha! Funny story. Back in 1978, during my third but certainly not last stint at the sanitarium, who was my roommate but the inimitable Ms. Liza Mins. That’s Minnelli, if you don’t know. Multi-talent, multi-habit. Multi-chins. Tony!

Rimshot.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
Love you, Mins. So we were both there at the BEHEST of our quote-unquote loved ones. Betrayal is a second cousin to love, always remember that. Anyhoo, we decided to make the best of the situation by putting on a show, like those faggy let’s save the farm with a good ole barn dance movies her mom used to shit out in the 40s.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
I’d rather be at home with Ray.
I’s ain’t got seventeen years. Cause there ain’t NUTTIN, at all you can teach me
that I can’t learn from Sr. Hathway!
Didn’t get a lot in class,
but I know it don’t come in a SHOT GLASS!
BOURBON!
REHAB!
Ain’t goin’!

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
At this point we had a pretty evolved system of friends, colleagues and fags, I mean fans, who would sneak us in bottles of pre-mixed martinis in shampoo bottles. Liza and I.
(phlegmy chuckle)
I tell ya, I don’t know how many times I ended up with a head full of olives and a mouth full of lather. And Maury you keep your fat mouth shut. So we recruited our mini army to acquire costumes and scenery--I’m tellin’ ya, we’re professionals til the bitter, drug-induced end. And we secretly auditioned the other patients, mostly former TV stars who didn’t have anything to do but the occasional “Love Boat” or miniseries. God, Zsa Zsa was PISSED she didn’t make the final cut. I still have a four karat wound from where she sucker punched me. I’d show you, but I don’t want to get arrested. Again.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
The man said why you think you here?
I said, I have no idea. (I rarely do.)
I’m gonna, gonna lose ma baby,
so I always keep a bottle handy. (Here it is.)
He said I just think you’re depressed.
Kiss me, yeah, baby
and go rest.
REHAB!
Fuck it!

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
So there we were, in the middle of the set. Liza and I were to duet on a particularly poignant rendition of MISS OTIS REGRETS. I was belting, she was belting, I belted louder, she belted louder, I belted louder still and she belted me right in the money-maker. Damn near scratched my jugular out. Well, woman or not, I socked that pixie-haired trollop right in the kisser. No one - except pimps and Jews - slap Perry Donovan.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
I don’t ever wanna drink again.

Takes a swig out of a bottle.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
I just, I just need a FRIEND.
I ain’t gon’ spend no damn 10 weeks,
have everyone think I’m in depends.

Piano STOPS.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
Needless to say, Li Li and I had to be separated, sedated and placed in solitary confinement after a minor riot - cum fire - started. But after all these years, we’re still the closest of friends. Just don’t turn your back on her...or let her borrow money. You’ll never see it or her again.

Piano begins again.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
(SINGS)
It’s not just ma pride!
Just til these damn teas have dried.
They try to make me go to REHAB,
I said NO, NO, NO.
Yes I been black but when I come back, NO, NO, NO.
I ain’t got the time
and if my daddy think I’m fine. Just try to make me go to REHAB--

Piano STOPS.

HECKLER (O.S.)
This show sucks!

PERRY DONOVAN
And so does our mother! Yeah, that’s right. I am so tired of your ingratitude. Here I am, pouring my heart out on this stage, and you pimply sons of Adam can’t throw some damn applause my way. I have a goddamn Emmy!

A large, burly man begins to DRAG him off the stage.

PERRY DONOVAN (CONT'D)
Get your hands off me! I haven’t been manhandled so roughly since the “We Are the World” studio sessions. Diana Ross is a man! Diana Ross is a man!

FADE TO BLACK.

Something's Gotta Happen

I see you tho I don’t know your face
I’ve waited for you, in some other time and space
We were together and happy I know
Now I must find you, before I can let you go

Something’s gotta happen
Someone’s bound to come along
To rescue me from this prison
Can you feel the words of my song?

The thought of you fills the vacuum of my heart
If we were together, I’d never want us to be apart
But I don’t know where you are or even who
I just know someone’s gotta love me, someone is you

Something’s gotta happen
Someone’s bound to come along
To rescue me from this prison
Can you hear the words of my song?

Life’s not meant to be spent alone
Everyone deserves to love someone
And to be loved in return
Love is the lesson I need to learn
Something’s gotta happen
Someone’s bound to come along
To rescue me from this prison
Don’t let me keep singing this song
I’m waiting for you

The Blues Got Me Down

I’m broke in an unforgiving town
Got no hope for the future
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?
I’m drowning and I need savin’
The sky is falling
And I ain’t got no haven
I’m walkin’ ‘round with a perpetual frown
My bright days are end
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?

Hey, what can I do?
I‘m crawlin’ in my own skin
I want to be happy, to be alive!
But reality keeps sinkin’ in

I’m so lonely, the night’s all I found
Dark and cold, it remains
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?
I could starve from affection
Or lack thereof
All I want is a little affection
(Is that so much to ask?)
So I sit here waiting for the wheel to come ‘round
Life being a cipher
Don’t you know the blues has got me down?

Hey, what can I do?
I’m crawling in my own skin
I need to be happy, to feel alive!
But reality keeps sinkin’ in

I can only tell myself things could be worse
They can always be
And pray to stave off another curse
As I strain to keep my head high
My neck is breakin’
But I’ve got to maintain, lest I die
No point in dragging myself on the ground
No matter how tired
Lord knows the blues, though, yes they’ve got me down!

Asphyxiation

Headless, oiled torsos. Mushroom heads. White sticky jizz juice dotting mouths agape. Extra tight shots of rather loose holes staring at you, unblinking and unending. And wanton disregard for proper grammar. To traverse the world of casual gay sex is an exercise in gag control. In more ways than one. It is often easy to forget and best to neglect the fact that these are real people behind such appealing headlines as “DAD I want to be inside you,” “i wanna rip a hole in your ass,” “SNIFF MY HOT, HAIRY HOLE” and “Insatiable Piss Pig .” Gays the world over, all ages and races are united in the pursuit of one thing: satisfying their ravenous sexual appetites. But in this pursuit, romance has surely died a violent, erotic death. Sex is disposable and subsequently, people are disposable. I mourn its passing. As a reluctant romantic, I feel it necessary to at least know my sexual partners. I am not so foolish as to think of love as a prerequisite for sex. If I did, surely I’d still be a virgin—though after eight months of unsolicited celibacy, I feel I can humorlessly reclaim my V-card. And furthermore, love does not exist for gay men. It is only a façade we use to disguise how sad and pathetic our lives are. Not that gay men cannot experience love, far be it. Love is the truest of human emotion. It is that gay men cannot tend to love as it needs to be tended to. Love needs patience to grow, whereas gay men are men after all, thus lack that patience. I would want nothing more to be in love, but I refuse to hold my breath should I die from asphyxiation.

I have been using the word “faggot” with as much vigor and malice as possible recently. I love the way its venom burns my tongue. The act of saying it relieves my frustration at having all of my advances spurned or ignored. Whether online or in the real gay world, a fabrication if there ever was one, each time I am rejected I take it as a personal affront. One must understand that being on the fringes of a group already on the fringes of society makes one particularly sensitive. Are you turning me down because I’m black? Does being black make me somehow less worthy of your affections? Whenever considering approaching a guy, regardless of race, I must always stop and wonder if my own race will be a hindrance or an asset. This insecurity is only compounded by the proliferation of ads specifying racial identity among the qualifications for having access to the wonders of someone’s dick/ass/mouth/whatever have you. Faggots. Why should race even matter in this day and age? Make no mistake, though, it does. America has a rich tradition of intolerance and it is virtually impossible to deny one’s roots. Then there’s the blatant shallowness of hooking up itself. Survival of the fittest. Or the biggest. Or the deep throatiest. I’m as shallow as the next gay, but what is all this competition worth? What is this game worth? No matter how much sex you have—or in my case, don’t have—the same loneliness will remain like a tumor beneath your skin. Only growing and spreading, infecting every aspect of your life. Yes, I do think that gay life is extremely pathetic and hollow. I’d love to get laid soon, if only to ease the burden of this loneliness. It is crucial to feel wanted and attractive. Everyone deserves those sensations. Does everyone also deserve to be needed and loved? I hope so, for the life of me. Youth, inexperience and an insatiable lust for life can be the worst of fates when faced with no one with which to share them.

But Not for Me

The days they pass me like a brutal wind
Billowing and tossing, fatal as a sin
I am in this world, but not of it
Unwelcome and shunned by those I covet
No, they have love and companions
But not for me
They have warm, fuzzy kisses to share
But not for me
There is happiness somewhere to be found
Just not for me

I feel as if I’m being punished but I don’t know
What crime I have committed, what petty low
To suffer for that which I cannot control
To be lonely in a lonesome world, so bitter, so cold
There must be comfort in the warmth of love
But not for me
There must be a caring shoulder to lean on
But not for me
There must be more than all this unhappiness
Only not for me

All this mixed up frustration
I just can’t see
Where’s my salvation?
Is there none for me?
Where is my salvation?
Or is it not for me?
There is salvation for some
But not for me

Awaken

Chorus:
Awaken the artist within me
Spark the light
Awaken the love inside me
Make me all right
Shake my soul from its slumber
Yeah, that’s my desire
Shake my all like thunder
That’s it, light my fire

Verse 1:
The day, my mind’s busy
Running away from my pleading heart
But the night, my mind’s dizzy
Self-destruction has become my art
Rather than face my needs like a man
I embrace my fears with both hands

[Chorus]

Verse 2:
How could Galatea learn to love
When rendered directly from stone?
That she was loved
Thus she was human from flesh to bone
Should I find my own Pygmalion
Perhaps then I could feel human again

[Chorus]

Bridge:
Like a poem half-written
I am struggling to listen
To find some way to complete myself
Like a blunt just clipped
I’m smoldering, but unlit
Waiting for the lips of someone else

Verse 3:
3;30 in the morning, I awaken
I’m too hot to sleep or doze
My body for a while’s been achin’
And the pump inside froze
Made from an ice that ain’t soon breakin’
And a loneliness no one knows

[Chorus]

Do You Know Where You’re Going To?

Thursday, May 10, 2007. Two years prior, my education at NYU ended. Unofficially. Unceremoniously. It just happened and life went on. Had my life followed a different path, I would be pictured with my friends, capped and gowned, smiling in relief and in triumph. I would be a part of something. I would be a different person. Not better. Only different.

We are shaped by our experiences. The mistakes, the successes, the failures. All the good and all the bad. They are tremendously important in contributing to who we are as individuals and what we value as human beings. Over the past two years, I have been so happy, I could have cried. And I have been so sad, I wanted to. Sometimes, I had to. I was forced, really, to learn humility, to learn to trust and to love others for who they are, not just who I wanted them to be. I was forced, really, to learn patience and understanding, because without them, how could I expect anyone to be patient with or try to understand me? In short, I was forced, really, to become an adult. To accept responsibility for my actions, because there was no one there to clean up my messes. It was me. It was only me, so I had to be accountable. Yes, it was a most trying time and there were certain things not worth going into that I wish had not happened. Yet, regret is pointless. It leaves one stranded in the past when the future is waiting to be explored. The past is important only to learn from the mistakes and try not to repeat them again. To dwell there is an unpleasant fate.

As I look at those pictures in which I am absent, I am filled with a strange mix of emotions. Not envy. Not anger. Not sadness. But all three congealed into a sense of curious detachment. I am an outsider looking in. Though I have often felt this. Felt somehow different. Not better. Just different. I think that is why I wasn’t phased when I left school. At least, not as phased as I could have been. I even expected it. With no one to shoulder the costs of a private university, I realized that I might not be able to return for my junior year. Actually, I had planned to return. Eventually. But not really. In reality, I was excited. I was happy to be leaving school because it only seemed to be draining what little money I had in return for an education I was not interested in attaining. A part of me, a very large part, loves to thrive. Loves to prove that I can do it. Both to myself and to everyone else. Chalk it up to the foolishness of youth. Even with a short perspective of two years, I can look back and see that things could have gone far worse than they did. But with luck, tenacity and help from my friends, my life has gone fairly well. Always a struggle, but always fun. Had I stayed at NYU, I wouldn’t have had those experiences. I wouldn’t be me. I’d be different. Perhaps a little worse. But most assuredly, different.

Who knows what the future holds for any of us? I might go back to school, I might not. My friends, hopefully, will stay in New York, and yet again, they might not. Life leads us all on different paths and the most we can do is make the best of the journey. To enjoy it and to not regret what has happened or waste time wondering what might have happened. Just enjoy and appreciate what life has in store for you. And realize, who you are now, you are for a reason.

Just Try to Understand

What have I chosen for myself?
These thoughts are real!
A life so lonely it sickens
These feelings are real!
Every pebble pregnant with purpose
I can think nothing else!
Every life a beautiful waste
And I can feel nothing else!
Forever, In Search Of
Just know I am true
Forever lost, though aimless
Just try to understand

Curse

Cursed with a complexity I can only hope to understand
Such intimate words confound and impress themselves upon me
I want to feel nothing, anymore
To subtract the weight I’ve attached to everything
I wanted an anchor in the sea of my life
To drown me or to keep me from drowning myself
You know I could never swim
But now I’m in too deep to save myself

Loneliness, He Comes Upon Me

The stillness of the air
Is stung by the restlessness of my single bed
As Loneliness, he comes upon me in the night.
The only lover I’ve ever known
Who always comes home, should he ever leave
His touch, his breath, his aura consumes me
He knows me, and I him, yet we are strangers,
Drawn together for we both seek companionship
Be it miserable, reluctant or compulsive.
It is needed--this companionship, this validation
Thus when I feel the pressure of his body against mine,
When I feel his strong hands clutching at my throat,
Making my breath short and the vision of my life bleak--
When I feel his presence fill and silence my restless bed
Making the still air somehow electric--
I surrender myself completely
Simply because
We all need someone else to keep us warm and safe
From Night’s cold indifference.

Chapter 2

The image of the fleeing woman seemed emblazoned in her mind. She woke the following morning with the image of her painted on the inside of her eyelids. The same woman she had seen so often before, coming in at late hours, after working God knows how many hours to find a different friend tending her arrogant child. Sometimes he was alone, which was how Janice wished to see all children. Abandoned and alone, as she saw herself at so tender an age. In truth, her childhood had not been very difficult. She had had parents who loved her and, though they were by no means wealthy, she never went a day without food in her wide mouth, or clothes on her broad back, or a roof above her square head. Nevertheless, in her mind, her childhood was of the Dickensian variety. She saw little Janice, eyes wide as the English Channel, her naturally auburn hair somehow blonded by youth, and cheeks rosied by some anonymous winter in Florida, her birthplace and home til the age of eighteen. She saw herself hungry and on the verge of tears, homeless save for a cardboard box, a far cry from the one floor bungalow she shared with her parents til the day she decided to take to the wild streets of New York for college, and what she had hoped, the promise of booze and jazz. Instead she found artists with little credibility and even less talent and men too eager to offer their hearts at the expense of one night.

It was perhaps this blandness of youth that encouraged Janice to invent a suitable past with which to comfort herself. Had the years grown so long that she began to believe her lies?

The baby is never going to cry, she thought, suddenly, standing at her window, observing the apartment across the street. Why had she gone to sleep? she then wondered. Where are the police? Shouldn’t the area be buzzing with burly men in tight-fitting uniforms? Shouldn’t at least a fat man in a tight-fitting uniform be around, asking questions of the people in the young woman’s apartment. What if they ask her? What would she say? Honestly, the image was so fast, the light flickering on and off so quickly, that the shadowy figure chasing the young woman could have been anything, Like, what, officer? She played out the scenario in her head. Should he be young and virile, she would have no problem working her womanly wiles on him. A slight throw of the head to one side, letting her curly hair slide ever so gently into her still attractive, albeit slightly worn face? Biting her lip with all the blithe assurance of a skilled ingénue, of not necessarily the youth. What if he were fat and his potbelly had already burst one or two buttons off a uniform he had been wearing since, if, he was young and virile. No matter. She could still seduce him, rubbing his belly, kissing his ear, God hoping there was no hair or wax or a deadly combination of both lurking there for her tongue to find. She’d cozy up to the officer or detective and coo that she was not even awake at the time the crime happened, which for all sakes and purposes, could well be true. Maybe she wasn’t awake. Maybe it had all been a dream after all. That would explain the lack of the proper authorities.

Still, the image of the woman strayed with her. She sipped her morning coffee, trying to squint into the woman’s darkened apartment.

The baby is never going to cry again. Was that a bad thing? No, she banished such selfish thoughts out of her head. When the little creature was born, about over a year ago, she immediately disliked it. At night it would keep the entire neighborhood up with its inhuman wail. During the summer she had been forced to get an air conditioner as to keep the windows closed and drown out the unhappy child’s incessant screams. Never had she seen such an insolent creature, but the thought of it being gone forever from the world, it saddened her greatly. Again, she pushed thoughts out of her head but these were thoughts, maternal thoughts she had long hoped dormant.

She finished her coffee and disrobed in front of the window in preparation for her shower. She liked giving the old pervert with the binoculars a good show. Oh, there he was, still kicking and pounding, one hand on the binoculars and the other god knows where. He was only two apartments over from the young woman, surely he would have heard something. Would have done something, if only call the police or see what was was going on with all that racket. For surely, there must have been some racket. Or the furious older woman, all dressed up with no where to go, she must have heard something, though she might be well into deafness and senility by now. But what of the transvestite. The young woman’s apartment is between his and the old broad. They would done something, Janice tried to assure herself. She turned on the shower.

The hot water ran over her tight-for-forty-something body, all she could hear was the lonely echo of the faucet and it occurred to her that if she died, none of her neighbors would know or, for that matter, care. She had lived in that apartment for thirteen years and had barely spoken to anyone in that building. But with rising rent and declining space, neighbors came and went so it was best not to get too attached. And the new resident were usually spoiled, trust fund babies who trashed the apartment and went on to another one, all without a care in the world. So she kept to herself. Maybe the young woman was the same way. Maybe no one knows she’s dead. She toweled her hair and slipped into her bath robe.

Janice tried her best to think of what the day had in store before her, but the young woman’s image became clearer and clearer by the minute. Her face, never pretty from what she could see, and Janice could spot ugly from three hundred meters, was contorted in a mix of anguish and fear, right before the light switched off. Just as quickly as it had come on. And what of that poor, insolent child? What had the shadowy figure done to it? To the young woman? And what if he had seen Janice watching? No, impossible. The buildings, although close enough to see into a corresponding apartment, are too far apart to see a youngish woman of late thirty-something, eyes half-closed, witnessing a murder in a flash of light. At least she hoped. She continued to dress in silence.

After checking to make sure the curling iron, the stove, the coffee maker and her vibrator were off, Janice prepared to go out. She had decided to go on with the rest of her day and not worry about an incident she could barely recall had even occurred. Janice grabbed her keys and opened her door to a familiar crying. A baby sat outside of her door, throwing an unholy tantrum.

Chapter 1

The snow tapped lightly at the window. Perhaps it wanted in from the cold, Janice thought, the thread of sleep still tugging at her eyelids. She saw the frost building on the glass, heavier and heavier, fearing that the outside world might crash in on her and suddenly she grew incredibly thankful she didn’t have to be out there with the falling snow, hopelessly tapping to be in a warm room with a fireplace, under a thick blanket that, though it itched her skin, made her feel instantly secure beneath its wooly weight. The night slipped away into that dangerous but exciting limbo between consciousness and the sudden realization that a new day begins. Her mind went over what that day held for her once the warm embrace of the sun gently shook her from sleep. Surely, there were errands, appointments, something, anything to do, though she could not see them. Perhaps if she made a list, enumerating every task, but she could not bring herself to care. Rather, the rapidly building snow was the only thing of importance. But why? It had snowed before, had snowed harder, longer, hell, there has even been hail. Snow on steroids, as she had come to think of it. Once she was beamed in the head with a piece of hail the size of a marble. Look closely, and one could see the welt on her right shoulder where the hailstone pierced through the jacket of her Chanel pantsuit. So why was this snow such a surprise, a revelation? Why bother, she thought, trying to push the idea out of her head to finally put her thoughts at ease so that she might rest finally after a long day of sabotage and intrigue. After all, being the top Karry Fay distributor in all of upstate New York takes no small amount of bribery, coercing and obtrusive sexual favors. Yet her powerful position afforded her this chic little number in the heart of Midtown, amidst the crackling sound of life all around her. All that meant nothing, though, for that damned snow. The buildings beyond it seemed like they were in a different country all together. The large man with the laps of fat about his waist who wore women’s clothes after a grueling day at the office, to whom Janice had once sold a tube of Pucker Up Plum when she was just starting out, now lived in some remote area of Siberia, his window drawn closed. Janice wondered what he would be wearing tonight. Last night was a bit of a letdown, a man his size couldn’t pull off a wrap dress. He should have known that by now. She had hoped he would redeem himself with another vintage Balenciaga, but she had not seen him tonight. And next to him, the furious old woman with the extensive fur collection, whose apartment looked almost directly into hers. Where was she tonight, all dolled up with nowhere to go and no one to take her. Watching her made Janice feel the type of loneliness that seems familiar, if a bit of a ways down the line. She knew in 50 or 60 years she’d be that woman. And she too would be furious at having been left all alone to die in such a big, uncaring city. She must be, like, what, 90, Janice considered as she rolled her tired eyes over to the next apartment, the one with the tired single mother and the toddler who never seemed to grow or stop crying. But what’s that? He’s asleep, for once. And her window’s open, though the light is off in the kitchen. Then, like a flash of lightning, the kitchen is illuminated, for a short two or three seconds, and the young woman is running from one side of the room to the other. A large shadowy figure pursues her and the light goes out again. There is no scream, there is no baby crying, there is nothing at all in the heart of midtown. Not even a car horn, only the sound of the snow lightly tapping against the window. Thinking it was all just a dream, Janice’s eyes finally close and she enters limbo, unsure of what she saw, but ill at ease nonetheless.

Bubble

Of course
The bubble had to burst
And I had to return
To the earth, still
It was a beautiful respite;
Of course
The floor had to fall in
But at least I could learn
Just what it feels
To live and not merely exist

I Think I'm an Alcoholic

Productive
They walk by me
Do they see me?
Do they recognize me?
A fallen friend, classmate or colleague
Drinking
Alone
In the middle of the day
Again
What would they say?
Would I care to hear it?
Creative
I strive to recreate the world
As I see it
As I want it
Do they look at me strange?
Or with some sort of pleasure?
Morbid or otherwise
I finish my drink
The first
But certainly not last
Of the day
My world beginning to take shape
With each sip

Impotence

Perhaps what holds my pen
Steadfastly to the floor,
Beside its notebook, laid bare—
Its empty lines calling for their lover
To embrace and kiss them
With thoughts, questions, exclamations, declarations and prose—
Is perhaps not a lack of kisses
But a reason with which to deliver them
There is no love—there is no motivation
With idle time comes idle thoughts
Too many hours in the day
Or too many devoted to the wrong pursuits
The pen and notebook, the lovers
One is impotent, the other barren
Thus what was there before
All that passion, desire, drive
Has been lost to time
Too much, and yet not enough
There, sitting still, suspended for how long
His fire is extinguished

Chasm

He stands eight feet away from me
But in that eight feet
A chasm rises
Or sinks
Whatever chasms tend to do;
He seems so far away now
Beyond reach of my voice, or longing gaze
Yet, at the same time, I can feel the heat of
His eyes upon me, my heart starts to beat ever quicker
Should I crane my neck, would he be looking back?
If so, what would be the harm?
What would I say—
‘Say hi’
But then what?
‘Maybe comment on the weather?’
Come now, what else?
There is nothing else
I can only think how I want to tell him
How I love him and have been waiting for him
Though I’ve only now seen him…
People don’t say those things
No, not in real life
Not before at least saying ‘hi’
Dare I speak, but what if I should offend him?
‘No, not in real life…’
Best not risk it
As we are neighbors, despite this rising,
Or sinking chasm
But, then again
What if the heat I feel is not a tender gaze, but rather
A harsh stare
Or, even worse
It is
Nothing
At
All?
Should I turn my neck
And he would be paying me no mind at all…
I think it might be too devastating
And frustrating I should put so much
Weight on one or two words
Shouted across a rising,
Or sinking
Chasm
Instead, I turn my key, averting my eyes,
Rush into my apartment,
Throw myself on the bed
And listen
To hear him through the wall
Maybe thinking about me, or even listening
Just to hear me say
‘I wish we both weren’t a chasm away’