Midtown in December

The words were in me, then they disappeared into the vortex of the 7th-floor halls. Let’s see how many of them remain. 

There are many things that I can talk about tonight. Except it is 11:13 in the afternoon. Or morning. Maybe I was just trying to sound like a writer that I admire. But I can’t even write authentically. The sun has yet to fall, but I continue to write.

There is no sun from where I can see. Only artificial rays of light beam onto the floors and bounce off the randomly tiled walls. It feels wrong to call them rays, that word is reserved for her.

Sometimes words flow out of me like paint. Like the Portland orange that fills their bodies. Connected by their fingertips like sisters. Like people who all love each other and await the day to finally return to her warmth. They dance in a circle. They lay against the sea. I wonder what they hear. Does it flow through them like the energy that flows through their touch?

Everything is covered in white. The gas from the plant sweeps the air off the building and onto the ground beneath. I look to my left. Two becomes one and slowly crawls toward my face. His red face gets bigger and bigger until everything turns black. Why is it that upon arrival he brings darkness? I sit and open my book as soon as I enter. The words begin to creep off the pages. The woman’s shadow blows them into my eyes. I close the book and take out my phone. 

But a certain phrase sticks. “you have a mole just like me”. You are the only one who notices mine. I wasn’t born with it but as I grew, it manifested. What is on her face? It’s beautiful, it’s unique. Do you know anyone who has a face like mine? A nose with a conspicuous bridge and a mark named by beauty herself above her lip. Carefully placed by Cupid so he can aim his bow and bask in her presence. No, love, you haven’t. And you never will. And if you ever thought that she would make the imbecilic mistake of changing it, of brutally mutilating what her father gracefully constructed for her, you are terribly mistaken. 

Ly. Sometimes lly. Physically, polar opposites. They don’t even complement each other's interests. But neither my opinions nor theirs will keep them from being apart. They love each other. They embrace each other, at all times. They never, ever let go. hE can never get in their way. They go together; everywhere. Nothing can get in their way and leave victorious. And that is how I learned how to spell.

Few things go hand in hand. Recently, I made a new friend. We watched a movie together, among other things. This is what officially made us friends: the act of two people indulging in cinema together. What makes that so… official? A beautiful thing happens when two people lose focus on each other and discover it on a screen. I don’t need someone in order to watch a movie, but without them, something is amiss. We communicate through thought and signal. On occasion, during the act of course, we acknowledge a profound, intellectually stimulating detail verbally. And yet, we still prefer to let the space between us do the talking. I am glad I shared this experience with her. I have officially made a new friend. 

What defies poetry? Why is it that in order to declare something as poetic, it should fit certain criteria? The criterion is this: what makes poetry is the writer’s ability to non conform. With a set of rule[s] so simple, why is it that you don’t consider this poetry? Is it because [you think] there is a lack of stanzas, rhythm, and hidden allegorical nuances? Is it because I have told you many times that I am incapable of writing poetry? Don’t say that you now think this is poetry because if I had not written these very words or presented this very idea, you would have deemed this as “creative writing”. I urge you to never belittle any of my words as simply “creative writing”. Isn’t that what you have called your work before? Maybe. I’m sure that I have. I know that I made it very (?) clear that I was not a poet in Disappeared Dreams, but I must approach you from a newfound ideological standpoint. I am a poet. Every single thing I write is poetry. 

As he slowly put his cheek on the raw block of marble, I began to shake. No. I started to shake when the heroin affected the way my ears swallowed the bass. Everything slowed. And reverbed. and chopped. And slowed and reverb and chip. In my opinion, it bolstered the jazz and made it more authentic. This is the way jazz should be consumed. Through a heightened sensory awareness.

If I ever included footnotes on any of my writing all of your jaws would smack the floor. I write passionately, intentionally, and with references to numerous works of art. Many of them go over your head, and that is fine. You know that I don’t want you to understand. You know that I write for myself. And I know that I sound awfully pretentious. But it is mine. If anyone ever truly understands my writing, I will make it known. That is when you will know that I will know that I have fallen in love. 

The streets are filled with brains. Pardon me. I would not classify them as brains. If any of them were truly brains they would know to stay away from midtown in december. I have written the word fuck three times already, but they never stay in place. That is how I feel walking down 43rd and fifth avenue. Why is it that so many people make the conscious decision to bring their families and luggage to a small neighborhood with nothing to give. Only a few good memories can be extracted out of the millions created during my visits to times square. Why are they so sure that they will create that good memory after only one visit? What gives them the right? No. You must shove and get shoved at least 12 times before you can even consider making a fond memory of this place. Yes, I am writing from an office building on 45th and 6th. Could you sense that from my writing? That I am writing from a midtown perspective? From a perspective full of people that I want to throw to the floor? Can you tell that I am only writing to keep me from having to travel home and step foot in that hell that I call midtown in december? 

A true artist needn’t know how to create but why to create.