Archive for January, 2012|Monthly archive page

New to New York

In Life, New York on January 25, 2012 at 4:15 pm

This is a little wandering I did from mind to page in the New York city livin’ last year.  Internet, here it comes!


Today is my fifth in New York and I am spending it with a poppyseed homentaschen in the West Village.  I’ve had a few adventures thus far, and I think if I was a year younger I would be happy to list them off.

1. Poppyseeds = yum.

2. Subway = hot.

3. Park Slope = good.

The Park in Park Slope

And so on.

Paring down my first days into a list is like sculpting a prize pig; I used to think if my list was big enough, so was my life.  But what I’ve really enjoyed thus far are little stories, little moments.  Like earlier when two men gave me beets.  They were sitting on the steps of a Williamsburg brownstone, their hair half shaved, half dredded.  The brown beard noticed me a few steps away, map-hugging and called–

“How you doing?”

I smiled, explaining my recent move, taking two beets when they raised their carryout and handed me a fork.

Before the beets

I think most of America imagines New York is busy, a place where no one looks at each other and clack-shoed feet hit the pavement clack-shoedly.  But that’s not New York.  Neither is the game, the grime, the hustle bustle, start and stop.  New York is simply another place where humans live.  Sure the backdrop’s a concrete sky that grays the tenor of the days, but there’s really nothing different about being here versus there.  It’s like Ecuador, Ireland, Poland, London and home.  So many times in one day I almost see the old neighborhoods.

Columbia University (the neighborhood of kimchi and choir)

The other night a man with an umbrella gave me a presentation of each borough on a map in the subway.  He tapped my foot as he exited the train: “Have fun out there,” he said.

A gal in the subway corrected my posture as I stumbled on a bumpy ride.

At the Brooklyn Library, I helped an old man print.  After, a toddler tapped my hand to show me the pictures in her book.  Neither shared the color of my skin.

New York is a playground.  It’s a place to forget the troubles of being human and enjoy being.  We’ve got too many slides to climb here, too many swings to swing.

New York is the place where everyone is an immigrant.  Everyone remembers the draft of the revolving door that brought them to the busted kingdom.  Everyone remembers the stranger who was there as they spun through – with a little pause (which does mean more in city-time) that stranger laid a coat upon the newbie’s shoulders, patted it down, and pushed them on.


A Few Minutes of Honey

In Life, Love, Poetry on January 21, 2012 at 1:35 am

I need a few minutes of honey.

Not ten minutes, not twenty-five, not sixty.

Just a few.

I will stick them between my hands

And rub them across my palms and it will feel


And when they pull apart lazily

Like a cat’s cradle, it will be


Because you will unravel them with me

Not with your hands but with your eyes

On mine, watching

My amber-drip fist

Bear cub into my mouth,

Where each sticky loop will fold into and under itself upon my tongue –


Into atoms

Into quarks

Into figilblops

And donlidoops

And the smaller and smaller things inside the sweetness

Birthing backwards –

Until the end is so far gone, it’s just made of me,

Which is made of the minutes

I spend with you.