63.2% of Statistics Are Completely Made Up

Carole is Beautiful

Carole King is beautiful. She is majestic and brilliant and talented and legendary and she has great hair. I was still young and living in the city the first time I listened to “Tapestry” all the way through. I had already heard every song a thousand times, except “Beautiful”; this was the first. It is positive, upbeat, motivational; it’s fake it ‘til you make it; it’s see it and be it. It was the worst song I could have listened to back then. New York City will always be glamorous and exciting to anyone who has never lived there. Everyone needs to see it, at least once. Every Long Island kid needs to live there, for a least a year. In short, New York City is necessary. It also sucks; it is depressing and it sucks. Consider the city from the perspective of someone who can just barely afford to live there. Your small studio apartment is nothing more than a box; it is a small box within a large box. (I never actually did the shoebox studio, but work with me on this one.) You wa...

Passage (Part II)

The skin grows things When you're not paying attention. You expected the loss of collagen, And maybe accept it, But the tiny silver cactus needles, That emerged beneath your eye overnight, Those weren't in the manual. This is your right eye, The eye with the crows feet. The mole just below Your right orbital rim Was never without a most stubborn and persistent Stiff black hair. Only the two white ones are new. This is your right side. This was never your good side. The left side has the dimple And smooth eye. The pores on the left Aren't as clogged. The left side was always your good side, Now, it is your young side. You can tell by the eyebrow ring scars. You didn't expect your freckles to join, Forming age spots. You didn't expect to see them all over your body. You expected your breasts and buttocks to sag, But were mesmerized When you first noticed that gravity Has the same effect on your abdomen and thi...

(Untitled)

His eyes were always old, But I only ever saw them as the calm beyond the storm. An open invitation to safe sanctuary for all. Our confessor. Our blanket. Our target. He can't extract the magnets, Embedded in his aura, Drawing the corners of his mouth up, up, up, Even when he feels like he's drowning. Somehow, they always find their way into his personal space. The derelicts, The downtrodden, The lonely, The bitter, The angry, The leeches, We feast on his ears, Politeness oft mistaken for giving a damn. I steal sidelong glances, To admire his beauty in candid moments, Always hoping to find contentment on his unmasked face. I'll stare for minutes at a time At a man whose face bears no creases of age, Contradicted by the weary torment he can neither hide, Nor hide from. I only wish to nourish and love, Ever wanting to be his pillow and shield. And if he hurts By all that I've taken, His pain only casts shadows ...

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