Conversations Among the Ruins

And then it's nine
years later and I'm

running down
a dull, busy

city street - I
towards him

him towards I.
He picks me up

as he hugs me
we spin
around and laugh

for a minute and I
miss my life here
in this dismal goddess

grey of darker matter
metal block stacks of
structure.

Nobody loves me
like this city/ that's a

fact. I drove down I55
today, in a
flashback today of

how drunk and cold
I would get.

The glamour of
believing in that life
left me -
the love did not.

Edit rewind the coffee
is cold and my face
has aged because I

earned it.

I earned it not to
overdose in an alley
way and I earned that

run down that street
into those arms
this afternoon.

I earned it to remember
what it is to drive
from inbound to far out

wasted at dawn, convinced,
and to realize
what I could have been
capable of, and I earned it -

the capacity for gratitude,
that I never killed myself,
or anybody else, or anybody else's
children.

We talk over and
over over coffee - I
take him to

Rosley's and
he picks a rock,

telling me he still
has the pink rock
from a day in

Memphis.

"I lost the coat
but I've got the
rock still, and the rock

was actually
always in the
coat."

I say goodbye as
I'm late. So we part
again

for maybe a month
or a year
or a decade or a
lifetime.

Back to back
walking separate
ways -

I from him with
him from I - both with

those pink rocks
and those

foot
steps that match
where they walked

when they walked
together towards

opposite
away. These streets
do not apologize

to me they just
show me what I'll

never regret

instead.

"Oh my God it's so
funny." I find myself
saying.

"She comes home and
cleans the fridge,
without fail, every time.

Just throws tons of food away
to make room,
aghast

at all that's piled up
inside. Basically, I
go

shopping, and my sister,
she cleans the fridge."

I've told this to a few people
in my life. So I had quite a
familiar laugh to myself

when I woke up this morning,
walked down the stairs,
and there sits Lisa, indian style

in front of the fridge,
and a full garbage bag
to her left. Aghast and

flustered over my parent's
refridgerator
par normal.

What is different this time
is that Grace, my one and a half
year old Niece, is sitting

in her lap helping.

"I feel like I come here
and I can't control

anything." She says.
"So I just clean the fridge,

because it makes me feel
like I can control
at least one thing here.

Look at this! There are
seven packages of
sticks of margarine and

five containers of butter.
I'm going to take a goddamn
picture of this whole shelf

of versions of
butter. I can't sit still. I
feel like I have to clean the

cabinets too but that's just
rude, so I have to deal with
the cabinets, and mostly

that I can't do anything
about them. The fridge though,
I will."

"Yeah" Pipes up Grace.
I raise my eyebrows,
pouring coffee.

I am up too early and
too jet lagged to try and
make all of this funny.

For the day I take my mom's car
while she's at work, with the
agreement to pick her up

at three o'clock. I'm early
so I visit her and it's nice
that people that don't know me

know me
because she tells them about
my life.

When we get into the car
her phone is going off.
It's Lisa, sending her a text

making sure
that I didn't forget
to pick her up.

My mother.
Who let me borrow
her car.

Like I'm a person
that would just leave her
waiting for me

after a long day of work.

I didn't say anything
about this nor will I.

But I was just making a
bagel at 2a.m and I found
myself

in front of the now
spotless fridge.

The butter shelf is all
lined up and straight.

I just stood there a minute,
staring hard at the

shelves, before I quickly
took a container of butter

and put it on a different
shelf. And another one.

After that another one.
A second later I'm
moving everything

all over.

Out of order and
crooked - mis matching up
the shelves. Putting

condiments
reserved for the door
onto the shelves.

My sanity has days
where it isn't so
thick.

But at least
I'm creative.

"Enjoy your flight."

I wonder about that.
Who on Earth

enjoys
a flight?

Would you say
"Enjoy your

root canal."

"Enjoy holding
your hands up
without your shoes on,

banging your laptop
on plastic crates,
losing a shoe,

and almost peeing
yourself

when somebody
coughs or blows
their nose. Enjoy

eating
a sixteen dollar sandwich
from Subway
that tastes not only
like subway but also

strange. Enjoy your
hours at a time
in a two foot space."

I laugh, and jump a
second, because despite
my headphones

I just heard
coughing.

As it turns out,
McCarren Airport
has greatly improved

for me throughout
the years.

For one, I just made it
through check in, bag check,
and security

in fifteen
minutes.

For two, TSA
did not confinscate
my crystal ball.

For three, there are all
sorts of shops in here
that sell all sorts of

skanky sequined
and mesh underwear.

But most of all,
I'm flying out of here
to visit for the Holiday.

Because I came here
and I built
a life. "Home' is a

perplexity of a an
idea.

"It's a whole lotta
feelings - all this
holiday stuffing" I said
yesterday.

It took a lot of
isolation and pain
for me for a long time

here to finally
have those people

that I call friends,
and not only know

but know
me
too. Barcelo

said to me
yesterday at the
wake

"It isn't about
who loves you.

It's about who you
love anyway."

Today I love this
airport.

But I will not
enjoy

this
flight.

I'm reading
five star
restaurant reviews

off of the
Tribune. With
no idea what

the hell
any of those
foods even

are. I got
lost in this
character, as if

I were capable
of calling someone
and saying

"Lets fly to
Chicago to
go to Ria for
dinner. The

fruits de mer
Turbout is
great."

What?
I'd rather barbeque
marshmellows in

flip flops on
Zuma. Maybe
get a jeep

someday and
wear simple
bright dresses

with salt
in my hair
during walks

with my dogs.

I've
always had a
barbed wire like
type

love for
California.
haven't I?

I need to
live in the
art district

here for a while
first. Maybe

be a mermaid
in the desert
over on Fremont,

learn
the art of

sculpture and
watch my cards
with those God

archetypes,
right?

Nine months
living in
Las Vegas and I

still
can't
shuffle
cards and
anyway.

I'm reading
five star
restaraunt reviews

in the
Chicago Tribune.
Witha grim
smile. The way

any star in the
system would
smile

at the idea
of being

contained
to
print or
sand or

unchanging
cards.

I wake up
under my rainbow
bed spread, in a

beautiful room
full of color
the sun

streaming in.

I stuff my head
under
a sky blue pillow.

Yes. My Bears
are in the
playoffs, against

the Packers; the
biggest rivalry
in the Midwest.

I want -5 degrees,
a three course
dinner, mac and
cheese

and snow.
Michelle would
burn appetizers,

I would cuddle
with boyfriends
screaming

obsenities
at the calls
with my father,

decked
in navy and
orange. Football

represents
all of the
living rooms

I loved
the people I
love

in. And today
is the biggest day
of the fucking

year. I have
no plans

just a lap top
my coffee
cigarettes

paint, and a
television I can't
bring myself

to turn on
to mute the
quiet.