Postcard from the Sound

I wake with a young man's breath beside me
tucking and stealing covers he curls into himself
The loft window shines sunlight downstairs 
in early morning it reflects the Eye of Soaron 
makes me want to genuflect or raise my arms
bow my head but instead I just make coffee


The young man sleeping before
I run my fingertips over his thick eyelashes
when he's asleep it is clear
he was born a decade after 
when we are awake it is clear I was born a decade before
smokers lines tap me on the lips
summertime waves hello around my eyes
the sky above the Long Island Sound 
bright and icy like an anchorwoman 
the Zodiac killer across the street 
carries Christmas presents to and from his car
these matchbox houses by the shore
these last chance porches waiting for the storm

Your Answer; Never, Sometimes, Often, Always

Many of you have been wondering, writing emails (then for some reason not sending them) but the answer is yes, I continue to struggle with my calling, my passion, my Best Life as grand Master Oprah calls it, or at least something that doesn't I don't know, annoy me. I'm not totally self involved, I know I'm not hunting for a boar for my dinner (imagine the weight loss, No Carbs!) or a child slave wondering if God exists. I realize I have real problems. Between episodes of Jersey Shore I ask myself the tough questions, "What is your Passion?!", "What Energy Are You Projecting?!", "Why Did You Stop Tap Dancing?!", "Why Does Your Body Reject What Is Commonly Referred To As Work?!".


Thankfully, Oprah magazine offers me advice and quizzes on discovering my Best Self, on a monthly basis. My studies take place on the toilet, with no pen I strengthen my power of visualization, circling or check marking from a pencil made of air: a.), b.), c.) and sometimes d.). It's hard because nobody's watching, so there's a great temptation to cheat. The results achieved by a mathematical process known as addition, reveal the quintacential me. Not the Bollywood celebrity I imagine myself to be. Not a hypoglycemic, retired chemical plant worker who tinkers in his workshop. Not Patti Lupone (original star of Evita, who's best known by non-theatre goers as the mother on the television series, Life Goes On). Not a cat wrangler. Rather a reflection of a secret me. In this reflection I'm left handed. That's something I cling to, with my right hand.

Ultimately, if I followed the path laid out by these multiple choice selections, I would live in a monostery, helping the needy, mending my burlap caftan (embellishing it perhaps or maybe just a strong red lip) staring at a bug on a leaf for three days. I mean that's pretty ridiculous. I'm way too tall to be a monk.

Anyway, in addition to everything else I've got on my plate (if you can believe it), I've been thinking of my Nana lately. Her Marlboro Lights in the pocket of her house coat, a tiny remote control in the other, her feet scuffing the carpet of her tiny living room. Wait, I just realized why I've been thinking of her so much. That's me! Exchange Johnnie Carson for Jersey Shore and it's incredibly eerie! If I want to speak to my dead grandmother I have to stay up late and ask her questions during commercials. Her apparition appears disinterested and asks me to make her
some Salada tea and toast. I assume it's like a meditation on the godliness of daily activities or something?
I don't have all the answers but I do ask the big questions.
Fact: It's best to brush up on Medieval speak as most of the answers are in like Chaucerian English.
Example: Methinks this whiney wench's mouth shall maketh a fine shoe horn for me swines hoove.

It's Electric

Tinted vans, rusty nails and most social situations. These are some of the fears that I've inherited. The fear that resonates most with me is a fear of all things electric. When taking a bath for the first twenty years of my life, I kept a close on the hair dryer and curling iron sure that they wanted me dead.
Electric means toasters, lightening, plugs and wires but also things like fireworks. Another fear that is closely linked with the electric concern is the fear of losing an eye. I believe the origin of this fear is my fathers poor eyesight. He often speaks about how he would have died had he lived in ancient times due to his near blindness. The idea is that he would have been left for dead in a cave while superior sighted humans left to discover the wheel or that he would not be able to see through a dense forest while tigers chased him.

In modern times, my father exchanged tigers for toaster plugs and 4th of July sparklers and combined that with exploding eyeball phobia. Still, when I was young neighborhood teens like fat Louie and the evil drug dealer David Parrish (oh the horror, he was from a single parent home, another fear) gathered on the street right in front of our house and lit an impressive 4th of July show on Glenbrook Ave. We watched from over 100 feet away as my father wrapped his hands tightly around our wrists. All it took, he said, was one faulty M80 and when Louie bent over to light it, that M80 would rip through his eye socket. Louie would be blinded immediately. No need to call an ambulance. The show's over. Happy Fourth of July!

Critics Corner

One of my favorite activities in Kansas City (besides going to the WWI memorial almost daily) is pointing out the cultural differences between Kansas City and the east coast. Though it's tiresome for my loved ones, it keeps me alert and prevents early onset Alzheimer's.
An example from last night: I attended a going away party on a warm but breezy summer evening in a magical Swiss Family Robinson house. Young and old gathered to wish the great Frank & Sarah farewell and good luck on their journey to NYC. There was couscous, vegetables, salads and in the corner, a bucket full of pulled pork. Michael and I made tiny sandwiches and walked around with loose meat falling where it may. This would not have occurred back east.

In The Year 2010

Nobody told me Kansas City summers were like Haitian heat waves. Each day for the past 2 or 3 weeks I step outside and my bodily functions reverse themselves. It's like that theory where all life is created by infinite spirals and mine chokes, vomits a little and starts chugging backwards. Historically, genetically, I should be dancing around Stonehenge wearing layers of Druid priestess garb (likely something functional and breathable, a raw linen or Irish cotton) on a rainy somewhat cool Solstice eve. Instead, I'm unable to complete full sentences or walk in a straight line, it's like being drunk but without any of the joy and only the following days depression. Luckily, there isn't a proper public transportation system in Kansas City so I hop in my car, hold the door open for a few seconds to release some of the swamp heat and immediately turn on the A.C (which after sitting in the lot for 10 hrs is like sticking your face in the oven while your broiling some moldy ribs. I really need to change the air filter).
Anyways it seems some of the locals discovered a way to beat the heat and avoid the sweaty butt, inner thigh rash, dripping t-shirt hazards of walking in these conditions. Their chosen system of transport is.....
The SEGWAY.
Kansas Citians ride around in these things like it's totally normal. Cops use Segways to control their "wild" midwestern public. It's like the Terminator over here or RoboCop. I want to keep one near my desk at work and use it when I need to get up to file some paperwork. Are there toilets on these things? Kitchenettes? Do they have sleeping chambers? It is like living in Tron over here and nobody else seem to notice. It's making me insane.

Bury me on the Pelham Parkway at the Unicorn House

Marisa and I drove along the Pelham Parkway last night. She wanted to show me the Unicorn House that almost made her drive off the road on the way to work in the morning.

We pulled over and I jumped out to take pictures. People live in this place, it is not a statue business or a weird wedding hall. While taking pictures I hollared at Marisa that there were live humans inside, one with a mass of crazy red hair, like Patricia Field and a bald old man, just chillin. Marisa noted that there was a pool. Later when we were driving away she mentioned that maybe this was a hobby of ours. I think I would like to pursue this hobby more. As of today, this is where I hope I go when I die. I would like to sip pina coladas and eat tiny weiners atop a unicorn while watching the traffic on the parkway. Afterwards, I would take a dip in the pool for a million years or a second, however times works in the afterworld.

p.s. yes that is a chandelier hanging outside and yes those are religious icons being suffocated in weatherproof plastic. Also, there is a santa claus with sleigh, etc., on the roof.

Grampa Scrimshaw

This old man came to fix the tub in my apartment. I asked him if he was a sailor because he was wearing an old timey sailor cap and all sorts of nautical flair.
"Nope," he said, "I make scrimshaw" and he took out an Altoids box and opened it up. Inside was a handcrafted needle with an eraser stuck on top and little pieces of ivory he was working on. I noticed all his flair was scrimshaw. He even had a belt buckle with a huge Clipper ship. He said he was once asked to do presentations down at South Street Seaport for tourists, I thought that was beneath him but I held that to myself. He should be in a gallery. I wanted to this man to be my grandfather and scrimshaw mentor.