'When a girl takes off her sunglasses, I can hear her better.'

-Hugh Prather, Notes to Myself

It's getting hard to write. The words don't come in floods anymore; a boring sober sputtering is all I muster (or mutter). So take me back to Brooklyn, give me my walking hat and my flask, and I'll spin you tales you'd love to believe that even I know aren't true.

I haven't felt this level in so long that I have little to say about it. I need a change, maybe my name. Get me back on the train, your face. It's all I see here, between the tracks, between the lines, the long steel lines to Brooklyn. All glass and chrome is what I need, cement and grime, not grass dying for want of some taste of rain. The pain I do not feel is what I need to spin these tales. I can't complain, so I'm left with little to say.

this little middle finger is for you.

Do not touch me tonight.
I am funky.
A full day's work's sweat
clings crusty to my body.

I live in a fairy tale
With some awfully nice people.