What I want is someone who will stand and smoke Marlboro's with me (the strong ones, in the red package) in the rain after eating a lumberjack at the strand on 98th street
someone who will hold my hand while watching the boats at Southstreet Seaport.
someone who can out-drink me at Mcsorley's and eat more cheesecake at the Carnegie Deli
I want to be in the city I love with someone who will go down on me on the centre steps of the Met and, go home with me - watch Annie Hall andcry listening to Nina singing Porgy at the Vanguard I want someone who will stare with me at Auden's house and,
walk with me to the Dakota to look up to the window where Lennon lived.
someone who knows all the words to The New Colossus.someone who,wants to be with me in the city of the heros we share.what I want is someone who knows about the Irish and llis Island and,
why Sugar Hill is called that
what I want is
to be with you
in the city we love.

Inspiration does not come floating by every night, especially nights- that are dark and starless.
They have a gloom and shadowy despair written into them. Yet at times -when the chilled, damp breeze wafts in with a whiff of melancholy joy., haunting notes of a solitary flute, accompanied by nothing but the silence of the night and the laughter of my soul. In the melody I see - A brook tripping along a green hillside, gently , ever so gently, the sparkling wind echoing across the valley covered in flowers, glimpsed in that ever fleeting moment. As the clouds parted below. And even when the flute has ceased to make any more music, the sounds linger on in my soul as if the echoes from the mountain have found an answer in my heart. Then I put pen on paper, to capture a moment of liquid joy, that dropped into my existence on a chilled and starless night as I sat listening to the flute Of Coelho's shepherd boy on the hill side

luck is like the child a woman bears in her womb-self coined(on the eve of graduating physics hons)

when we met that night in Barcelona was working or doing what they do
The moon was hiding behind some random cloud. Street lights were changing as we walked past conversations
Whether it was: "Where are we going?" or "How are you tonight?" or "Did you see that bastard?"
We sauntered past a medley of Yesterdays. Our feet seemingly carried our souls with a lack of traditionality. Or maybe, our mortality was whispering and beckoning us to follow.

And I suppose it's just passing now,
That the sun will return to tare it's way across the earth,
With that insufferable roar.
Coincidence perhaps,
That my hatred and the sun are so timed,
Lockstep eroding my peace,
Effects bleeding into the night I cherish dearly.
The hatred, like this heat wave, unyielding,
Forcing me to shed my comforts,
Blankets with which I am intimate.
The hatred, like this heat wave, unforgiving,
Nothing to be done but sweat through the labor I despise,
It just takes so much from me.

I desire the soul of the moment – To eat the heart of desire, To pulsate with the sex of the meal
And to take passion for my time. I will not will, but act… Thus behavior is its own text. Take one touch of my green hand To leap into the forest. What can I say in my saying That will alert you to this upturned need? Can I embrace your shadow? Can I taste the echo of a leaf?

I wish to read the poem that isn’t there.
It is in another book.
It has not been written.
My dream is at an end.
Take me with you to the park.
Face me toward the sun in the trees.
I can hear the voice
Broken, intent, alive,
Making a Saturday afternoon
--a place to start.
I can see one dog chase another,
Chasing time
And the church bells.
Children grow their millimeter for the day.
Hold tight to the sky.
We are all juggernauts of passion
Trying the sun
Trying on laughter
Dressed in each other’s arms.
Where it is, I do not know.
Some notebook in a drawer.
In a room full of curtains
And nuances.
In my sKirt pocket.