Him: … Her: in bed, soft down inside black sheeted warmth bare leg carelessly stretched, toasty toes. out doors, soft down sidewalk white sheeted cold bare cheek carefully hidden, ruddy nose. blanketing, muffled world here or there? days to stay in days to stay out, days to take a plus one to the chest blanketing, muffled world arms.
the city is quiet now, worn out from carving the skyline out of a long-exposure stream of light; buildings slumbering at angles unnatural create cricks in the neck and a sharp burning sensation in the heart – the click of central heating in a tiny box overlooking the knees. Last night I walked the high line, tracking deep rumbling on its old trajectories and found that above the city rises a tunnel of parallel ribs. Staring at the ceiling of a heart when all along it was an expanse beyond ourselves we were aspiring to, bitter grief awash with gratitude at the pale trajectory of hope we thought punctured the dark but can only hold it from caving in. This city sits in parentheses wondering what a start is, and what an end could be. What (but) unnatural clicks in a long exposed streak of light are we. ==== *note: this is the last in a series of six poems written in and about New York. photos taken by jasmine, and the amazing Rachelle …
between flaking confetti flash heeled toes directing attention to a dull ache rounded and tight, exerting its presence by strumming nerve endings that tendril from the calf up to the center of my chest, a beat syncopated to the armored earth slapping the flat of my feet quietly humming ‘I held it all’ threaded between the bigness of extravagant sound it is hard to imagine two songs reconciled to an opinion. But all traces a lined circle in the ground meeting itself after running long enough for we are ever going back to beginnings in dust waves. ‘and I hold it still’ she says, and for a moment my feet read a synesthetic history of grief and laughter. we are sounds colored in cascad ing quiet remembrance and the earth is drinking our story. ==== *note: this is the fifth in a series of six poems written in and about New York. all photos taken by the amazing Rachelle Tai
classified: help wanted to spear and dissect what exactly needs to be identified. we are too many branches extending green tendrils of evolution falsely accused of the intent to overwhelm. it cannot be helped. forced to adapt and abandon what is no longer functionally necessary ‘look (t)here is the truth.’ memory has lost its function in the face of fact forced upon us in boxed glass not unlike the blunted edge of grass holding a pair of frames so a Monet tree would turn its back on the sun and find curvatures of rhythm dripping from end to end of sacrifice. the truth is I am fighting the urge always to box you in my eye is a color: unclassified. ==== *note: this is the fourth in a series of six poems written in and about New York. all photos taken by the amazing Rachelle Tai
we have sat on walls suspended above black text in white boxes explaining who what when and why for where is of little relevance since we are (w)here amongst the walkers, beneath eyelash-ed layers of encrusted time is a quiet sight to still a surrealist eye and prompt spiraling exhalations of desire for possession is achieved only when the view is accepted as larger than the perspective allows you are a triptych of primary colors streaking at geometric we’s to disturb a languishing natural repose acquired through reflecting in a mirror. We are a gallery built in looks themed ‘a moment’s notice.’ ===== *note: this is the third in a series of six poems written in and about New York. all photos taken by the amazing Rachelle Tai
