Remote Control

I'm back in my hometown. I'm on vacation from work and in some some respects on vacation from being a girlfriend. Rene has been staying with me the last two weeks because his living arrangement fell through and he's been trying to find a new place. He just found a place and he's escatitic. Silently, so am I. He's moving in over the course of the next few days.

He's been occupying my place while I've been gone. He says he cooked breakfast yesterday, our breakfast, the one we usually eat. Chopped up bacon folded into scrambled eggs with grated sharp cheddar cheese and scallions. French bread from the bakery next door. He said our breakfast didn't taste the same without me. He says the apartment feels empty. It's sweet to hear these things but sun results in illumination and shadows. I miss him too but food still tastes good to me. Is there something wrong with me?

I've never understood why this man loves me so much, why he has always loved me. I don't mean to be self deprecating. I just know that he loves me way more than i love him. And because of that, i don't feel like I deserve it. Because I can't give it back.

So right when I get off the plane my brother told me that Nicaragua called the house last week and my mother answered the phone. Not good.

Backstory: Nicaragua was my first boyfriend ever. High School. I was 15. He was my first. My mother never approved of him because he didn't comb his hair. Plus, she caught me sneaking out to be with him so that didn't help. Our relationship was doomed from the start. He was a very loving boyfriend and I'm one of the few out of my friends who doesn't regret her first sexual experience. I thank him for that. Thank him for not being a jerk I regretted later. He and Rene are both Aries and I see a lot of similarities in them, interestingly enough.

The problem was, Nicaragua wanted to be the badboy. Got kicked out of two schools while we were together for miscellaneous mischeif. Was sent to a juvenille detention center for robbing a convenience store. That's when I broke things off with him. Shit, I was making honor roll while he was behind bars. After we broke up (we were a popular couple, mostly because of him--I came out of nowhere, really) I became the hottest girl on the market.

Nicaragua's parents thought I put a spell on him because he was so depressed after we broke up. I started my pattern of heartbreak from then, I suppose. He escaped from the detention center. He started hanging around my high school, the one he got kicked out of. He started dating a friend of mine to make me jealous. It didn't work and it frustrated him. We kept loose ties over the years. So loose that we ended up losing touch. I don't think Nicaragua and I will ever forget each other. He was my first kiss, my first love, my first partner. And I was the first girl who ever opened his chest and stroked that cantalope heart of his. I charmed the pants right off him. I've been thinking of him recently because Rene is the boyfriend of mine who has reminded me of Nicaragua the most. Their style of loving me feels strangely similar.

So, Nicaragua called last week and my mother answered the phone. He asked for me. She asked who he was. He told her, then asked, "do you remember me?" My mother said, "yes, I remember exactly who you are." I imagined her voice cold. steel. But not the kind of steel you beat to make music. The kind you heat to make weapons. I realize now that my mother will always have a sore spot when it comes to Nicaragua, the young man who took her little girl away, her accomplice in this art of growing up. I realized that her grudge is not about me sneaking out. It's about me growing up faster than any parent wants. Nicaragua pressed on. He asked her if i still lived there. She said no, that i lived in new york. He asked for my number. She said she didn't have it. He asked her if he can leave his own. She said no and hung up.

I was outraged when my brother told me the story. How could my mother make decisions for me this way? Even still. That wasn't her decision to make. I understand if she wasn't comfortable giving out my number but she should have taken his. But i realize how powerless my mother felt all those years ago when her daughter became a secret wound wrapped in flesh. After all these years, she's finally taking her power back. I know hanging up on his punk ass made her feel good.

So, I thought and thought about it. This whole thing stirred up a lot of shit in me. Nicaragua didn't deserve that. Though I didn't necessarily want to get back in touch with him for any specific reason, it made me curious about why he wants to reach out though I knew deep down he would look for me, that he will always look for me. I don't want him anymore, but we have a strange connection that way. So this afternoon, I called his phone number, the one I recall from high school. It's one of the few numbers I still remember after all these years. My heart was beating against my chest like it was in a psychiatric patient in a locked room trying to pound her way out.

An androgynous voice answered, the familiar patois. I knew it was still the number of his household. The voice didn't sound very coherent. I pictured the person on the other end. Was it a grandparent, jolted out of a nap? His father, drunk in the middle of the afternoon. I asked for Nicaragua. The voice asked me who i was. I said my name. The voice repeated my name but only the second half of it so it sounded all wrong. It said that Nicaragua wasn't there. I was trying to find out if he lived there and wasn't home or didn't live there period. The voice hung up on me, the same way my mother hung up on Nicaragua just a week ago.

I'm annoyed at my mom but i understand why she reacted the way she did. I just hate the thought of someone, even my mother, having control of my affairs in this way. I just don't know the last time i've felt like this, when I wasn't allowed to talk to someone because mommy said so. A part of me is furious in a way that I haven't even allowed myself to express. I'm not in high school anymore. and no one, not even my parents should dictate my alliances, my friendships. not at this point in my life. and i've questioned if i'm arrogant for this line of thought or if I'm just fiercely independant. I am controlling in my own right. I see it more than ever in my relationship with Rene. But am I so controlling that I can't even fathom being controlled by someone else?

Seeing the X

I met up with an ex today, X, one of my greater loves.
We had an intense affair for over a year which ended
in a bowl of tears which took over a year to evaporate.

X walked in the door and a part of me no longer knew
who he was. It's been 8 months since we've seen
each other and it felt strange. He's gained weight,

and his growing locks are in that in-between stage
when they don't know which way to point, stick.
But my darling in all of his weariness and intensity.

He returned from Ghana recently and he says it
changed his life and he doesn't know how yet. That's
fair. And to watch him form his words with crock pot

slowness, the shape his lips run to when he's
pondering --I felt removed from it. I love him,
but I don't love him anymore.

But then, as we watched my students performing
today, at some point he grabbed my hand and we
held. And I wasn't so removed. But I wasn't so moved

either. Not enough to even consider going down
those old dirt roads. But we held hands, and he kissed
me on the cheek before he left. Plane to catch. I stirred.

My student Zach took his empty place.
And it didn't smell as good.

Footprints

Maybe it took Gabriel Garcia Marquez one hundred years of solitude to write One Hundred Years of Solitude. Well tell me Gabe, how long will it take me to write my novel? Last weekend I locked myself in my room and managed to churn out a whole three and a half pages. And even now I"m looking at that chapter sideways like, is this the best you could do? Man this is tough.

I read an article in Poet's & Writers about accomplished contemporary novelists who had totally different careers in addition to being a writer on the side: botanists, lawyers, accountants. Some took 10 years to write their first novel, novels that eventually turned into movies, like American Psycho (i'm beginning to understand that character more and more by the way).

Then i think to poets like William Carlos Williams, who was a doctor. Gerald Manley Hopkins, a Jesuit priest. Whitman, doctor. Lucille Clifton--mother of many. I'm about to break out the candles and the wegie board (sp?) to ask a few folk how they did it. There are also many contemporary writers living that same double-helix life with Flo Jo-like grace.

And since I've been intrigued with the idea of illusion lately, perhaps grace is another one of the world's greatest illusions. Maybe that is why the ultimate metaphor for grace is a black swan gliding across a pond. On the surface the movement looks so effortless, but underneath the water those legs are kicking like hell to propell that bird forward. That is the nature of grace. Making the hardest things look easy: survival included. Walking into work with a smile even though your insides have turned into a landslide. Pointe Ballet: smile for the audience while your toes promise never to forgive you again.

I have newfound appreciation for bookstores and libraries for the genius and the garbage those shelves hold. It takes writing plenty of garbage to create genius. It also takes reading plenty of garbage to recognize genius. I'm in awe of all the books the world has created. At this point, even the trashiest Harlequinn romance is close to being considered a monumental achievement even if there's a machine in a basement somewhere in Wyoming churning those suckers out. Hook, plot and climax.

Lately every movie I watch, every book I read, I wonder: what's the charm of these characters? What makes them so believable, what combination of words make them so flesh and blood in my memory? I watched the movie Magnolia tonight. Saw it once before long ago but thought I should revisit it because when I was at dinner with a friend the other night he mentioned it in such a positive way. The entire movie is heartbreaking and the characters, irresistible. Why? Every single character in that movie needed the same thing: they all needed someone to listen to them. To listen to their silences and not the noise. And by the end of the movie, most of them met the ear that was destined for them. Each character was a small transformation of humanity.

Still trying to figure out the frogs falling from the sky at the end. A Biblical reference perhaps?

I think of people like Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Hitler, individuals who shifted the consciousness of millions of people in gorgeous and ghastly ways. I think of Harriet Tubman, who used an unloaded pistol to liberate African people. And just about every main character in every Toni Morrison novel.

I don't know what I'm saying. I just know that I'm trying to create the kind of snow that sticks. Pardon the snow imagery: God dumped a foot of snow right in front of my door this weekend. And damn I can't tell you how magnificent it was to wade around in it like a queen for an hour today, watching it fall all around me like romance, looking back at the footprints I couldn't help but leave behind.

Letter to Death Row

One day, about a year ago, I got an email from a woman named Esther. Esther from Germany. Esther works for this organization called “Alive.” They advocate for men and women on Death Row. Esther told me none of this. All she was said that she has a friend in Texas currently on Death Row named Kenneth Foster. And Kenneth loves poetry. She goes to different websites, print out their pages and send them to Kevin. (isn’t that grand?) She came across mine, printed out my pages, much of my poetry, and sent it to Kenneth. Turns out he loved my poetry. Shared it with some of his prison mates.

Esther was emailing me to ask me if I would send one of my chapbooks to Kenneth. To dismantle the book, to take off the card stock cover and pull out the staples, b/c they would confiscate it. So, I did it. I sent him the book along with a nice, encouraging note written on the inside. I also did some reading up on some of the ramifications on Kenneth’s case. Fascinating, befuddling and heartbreaking. To read all about Kenneth’s case you can go to these links: http://www.austinchronicle.com/issues/dispatch/2005-02-11/pols_feature.html and http://www.kennethfoster.de/.

Weeks later I got a manila envelope in the mail. It was a letter from Kenneth, a rather lengthy typewritten letter. It must have been about 7 pages, single spaced, double sided. The letter was gorgeous. This man loved my poems, broke some them down the way a college professor never would and never has. He told me about his life behind bars on death row. Turned out I had quite the fan base in the Polunsky Unit of Livingston, TX. Apparently my poems leaped from Kenneth’s hands and grabbed on to the next inmate’s hands and like Tupac, they got around! Kenneth told me about his dreams behind and beyond those bars. This man was more up on the current poetry scene than even I was! Behind bars, he was trying to link me up to other people and collectives doing great things in the poetry world. Amazing. After reading his letter, I remember feeling that that was the most human exchange I’d had with someone in my recent memory, that letter. This was quite some months ago—maybe 8 or 9. Quite a few weeks later, even months, I wrote Kevin a lengthy letter back—though no where as near as lengthy as his. I wrote this letter in journal format to him, over the course of several days. I typed it. Life got in the way. I never sent it. I often thought about Kenneth, Esther was very good about letting people know about what was happening with Kenneth: the radio show that a Texas radio station acquired, to read the shout outs of people of loved ones in the Polunsky Unit. And they would all gather around the radio at Sunday at 1:00pm or so to listen to see if they got a shout out. Yes, she would send out emails about the Texas radio show, to an appeal granted in Kevin’s case, to the recent Protest at the Polunsky Unit that is starting to get some press.

So, I recently wrote Kenneth a letter. I’ve felt abominable for not replying to his letter and I wrote a 6 page letter (handwritten ) and I found it to be the roundest, most honest exchange I’ve had with someone in my recent memory. It was much like a journal entry so I figured I would share this letter here, in two parts.

01.23.06

Dear Kenneth,

I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I apologize for my silence. I’ve written to you once before—a letter of incomplete thoughts—but a letter none theless. I never sent it . It’s still trapped in my computer, screaming to be exonerated and given to its rightful owner—you. If I could figure out where I saved this letter on my portable brain, I will retrieve it and send it along with this one.

So, I hear you brothas are stirring the pot up there in the Polunsky Unit, using the tactics of our not so distant ancestors. It always amazes me, how many worlds truly exist in this one world. This weekend, I tried skiing for the first time. Never had any desire not even thought about it. But I got an invite so I went. I fell in love with this sport that I’ve only looked upon (the Olympics, for instance) in indifference. I loved it instantly, just by watching it up close. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my recent life—the next scariest thing to going up on stage and pouring my guts out in front of a group of strangers. The interprise of performing myself on stage via poetry no longer frightens me. For the longest time, without even knowing it, I’ve needed something else to frighten me. Something to frighten me out of my skin, tap me on the shoulder and whisper in my ear “ mortality.”

So, I got to the top of the slope (the bunny slope, mind you) I looked down and was truly frightened. Truly. I didn’t know the last time I’d felt that feeling so thoroughly, so entirely. And I did it. Without taking a lesson, without knowing anything, I went down the hill, frightened the whole way down. But Kenneth, the wind on my face, the brilliance of the big blue sky, the realization of snow under my new 4 foot long shoes. I will never forget that fear I felt the entire way down. I got to the bottom of the hill without falling and that was it. I learned all I needed to know about skiing—and relearned all I needed to know about humanity. Skiing is all about letting go of fear. I watched other people around me fall left and right. They fell simply because they were afraid and they let the fear swallow them whole—little Jonahs. I was afraid too, but I didn’t let it consume me.

Kennth, you should know that I’m quite arrogant at times about my fearlessness. Someone asked me the other day when was the last time I felt afraid and I couldn’t answer them. I walk in strange neighborhoods in NYC at 2 in the morning by myself without a thought. I have driven through the most redneck towns throbbing with the undead Klan convinced that nothing could or would possibly happen to me. But, this bunny slop had me shook. I went up again—the same fear gripped my throat—all the way back down to the bottom. And I ended up skiing for four hours and didn’t fall once. I taught myself how to maneuver, stop, slow down, speed up. I was reminded of the pungent taste of what it’s like to be afraid, truly afraid of something. And it was humbling. I never thought I would be humbled by a bunny slope on Suwannee Mountain. Blessings wear the heaviest cloaks.

I want to know what life is like for you these days. What is the climate like at Polunsky right now and how have you been dealing with that? I apologize for being so bad about being in touch. If you were to look up the word “self absorbed” in the book on inventions, you would see my face. Making a living, or “catching my ass” as we say in Trinidad, becomes a world all by itself.
Have you ever seen these wooden dolls? The ones that open up in the middle and there’s a doll inside of that one—identical, just a little smaller? Then you open up that doll and there’s one just like that and there’s all these dolls giving birth to dolls, and you keep opening up these maddening dolls until you come across one the size of a thimble. So, I’m that thimble-sized doll, so caught up in the world and I feel like I have lost all awareness of how layered existence is—how many worlds encase me. Am I making sense? I’ve said all that to say, thank you for your patience. You’ve reached out to me in a great and humble way and I haven’t reciprocated in any tangible way, though I think of you often. Esther is really good at keeping you alive in the minds of people far and near.

So, some random things I’ve learned as of late. I’ve learned that the “pachyderm” is another word for elephant. I’ve also learned that pachyderms mourn their dead; they cradle the dried up skulls of their dead in their trunks and moan like widows. Fascinating isn’t it? Another name for starfish is asteroid. Black holes were once stars. There’s a chemical compound called squalene that is found in shark liver. Squalene helps to oxygenate all of the cells in the body and scientists believe that that is what enables sharks to exist in deep seas thousands of feet below, years away from sunlight. In fact, sharks live uncannily long and have existed for over 400 million years on this planet—one of the oldest creatures in existence. Scientists believe that squalene is the key. Squalene, in minute amounts, is also found in olive oil. Dogs are being trained to determine whether or not someone has breast or lung cancer just from smelling his or her breath. I have no idea if this stuff is fascinating to you. If you tell me to stop, I will with no offense taken. Science is a recent fascination of mine. The only corner of science that I ever found even remotely fascinating was genetics. I’m starting to develop a reason for my recent fascination in my laboratory of ideas.

I serve middle school kids in Spanish Harlem—I direct an afterschool program. I love this job—but these kids. God, they’re gorgeous to the core. At the same time, I see all of this world’s mistakes manifesting in them. This school system, this horrid institution of delearning—the age of technology that turns the brain to mush—making it as obsolete as rotary phones and DOS. I see the rise of the music video, roaring its ugly head in the behaviors and proclivities of our kids. I feel like many of them are like beautiful science experiments going so tragically wrong. Children are brilliant—I admire their mind’s capacity to learn. Their brains outmatch ours. They can learn languages over night. Three year olds can take apart VCR’s and check for clues—report back in an hour.

Kenneth, when children are 11 and have already lost their curiosity, when they’re saying things like, “I don’t want to go anywhere that I’ve never been,” and “I know I’ve never tried it but it’s just not my thing,” it makes me wail inside. So, lately I’ve been turning to science, where there is a discovery each day—a new brand of toad or the revelation of planet in Pluto’s suburb. Though science always leaves plenty of room for chaos, there is a beautiful order in it—look at the machinations ecosystem (without our fuck ups, of course), look at the fact that babies are born with no teeth so that they can be breastfed—I find that brilliant! It’s larger than us, a design more intricate than a spider’s fancy web. And here we are, destined for madness.

So that’s where I’m at Kenneth. Just trying to expose kids to a life of imagination, expression and exploration. Continuing to teach poetry to whatever faces are placed before me. I started back teaching at the J-school last week which has been going great so far. My student’s minds are orgasmic—in a very non sexual way of course. Just trying to pay bills and save a little something for a sunny day (why always anticipate the rainy?). I can say that life is good to me these days. I love my work and all of the challenges it entails, I love the food that I eat, each syllable of laughter, and I’m drinking more water these days. And I’ve fallen in love with skiing.

Hope to hear from you soon, my friend.

Long Live the Poet

Trying to make the best of a three hour flight delay. I hear there is surly weather awaiting me in New York, something having to do with ice. Already, my ass (literally) smells like starbucks and my pinkie toe is throbbing. My head feels bowling ball heavy. As I approached the waiting area at gate C3, out of all the available seats I sat in a chair that felt damp. I jumped up, saw the wet spot. Hoped it wasn't piss. Grazed my hand over my wet ass and smelled South America.

Dizzy from Ibprofen. On New Years Day I sprained my pinkie toe while doing karioki. I was doing some interpretive dance to augment my already stellar rendition of Boyz II Men's "On Bended Knee" and I stubbed my pinkie against a chair. So much for fame.

So I've been limping ever since. Yesterday I couldn't walk without wincing from the pain. I've been taking drugs and now i can walk. As a result, I''m in West Palm Airport listening to 90's music and feeling dizzy and drugged.

This time was so necessary. If not for my family, I would keep going, going and not take a break from the grind. I took 13 days off of work. I didn't ask for the time off, I just took it. If i had asked, they would have said no. So, I walked in one day and declared that I was going to be gone for 2 weeks during the holidays and had already booked my ticket and would prepare all of the activities for the kids in advance and make sure my staff was briefed. I did all of this before I left. I fulfilled my promises and felt no guilt on the plane ride to florida.

I left NYC in the midst of the MTA strike. I wasn't really affected by the strike, sorry to say. No stories of walking across the Brooklyn Bridge in the blueback cold. No tales of hitchhiking my way up town. All I could say was that I missed a doctor's appointment. I got to work by catching a ride with my friend Holiday, who works with me and drives. As Holiday and I cruised through the strangely empty streets of upper manhattan, we mused: what will we tell our kids about the historic transit strike of 2005? We laughed about all of the stories we couldn't tell with a clear conscience: the 20 mile walk to work in the snow, sleet, hail, rain. Tiny brown specks in that exodus across the Brooklyn Bridge. Riding with scary strangers, 6, 7 to a car.

The airport is a grave of waiting people. There are screaming children everywhere. I just saw a young boy throw a huge tantrum in the middle of the terminal. He was throwing himself on the floor and every time his mother tried to pull him up he wouldn't let her and would fall back on the floor. She was really patient with him. It's times like this I can't picture myself with children. But then I did. I pictured my wailing child. I pictured myself walking away without looking back, knowing he would follow. I sent the woman my advice silently. [I]Just walk away lady, [/I]I said. He’ll follow. Finally she did. Walked away. And he followed, bellowing, but he followed.

I don't do the New Years Resolutions thing. A lot of my friends don't either. Maybe we're too cool for that illusion now, tired of these shallow promises we make to ourselves just because a ball drops in the middle of Manhattan. Regardless of how cool we are I think that most of us have some sense of self reflection as the year slams itself shut. I think we all devise ways to improve our lives and find short cuts to our futures.

So, having said that, I'm not going to call this a New Years Resolution. I'm calling it a birthday wish. My birthday is on the 22nd of this month and I hope the gods don't shake their cold dandruff all over it like they did last year. That's one wish. The other wish is that this will be a better writing year for me.

Not writing much poetry has been my biggest source of unhappiness for the past few months. I've been working more on my novel and I'm constantly writing in my head. I'm constanly sketching and rounding out my characters, their intentions, their idiosyncracies. I enjoy this type of writing, but poetry is my first love and there's nothing like your first love, really. Sometimes, poetic lines float across my blue skies and I grab them but don't know what to do with them. When did it stop being so simple?

And I know this is all right. I have this conversation with myself and with others all of the time. Intellectually, I know it's all right to not be constantly writing. To marinate and absorb. I've been getting ample teaching jobs. But, I'm sorry to say that teaching poetry brings me absolutely no inspiration. You would think so, but it doesn't. I love teaching, the self contained joy it brings. But it doesn't enhance my writing. Never has. Rita told me this would happen.
The teaching, the children in East Harlem, the freelance work. Social life. I come home exhausted. I've been saying that life gets in the way of my writing. I've heard other writers/artists say the same thing. I think that's a detrimental dichotomy to establish, the idea that art and life exist independent of each other, that they can't exist in the same space. They are kissing cousins. I know this. But, there's the brain inside the head and the brain inside the heart. This creative quagmire has been hard for me emotionally.

I miss poetry. I can count the number of poems I've written in 2005 on my two hands--the ones I'm happy, on one. When I go through those periods when I'm writing heavily, after writing till 3 or 4 am, I wake up in the mornings like a woman in love. The poem is the first thing on my mind, the first face I want to see. I want to improve it and I want it to improve me. I carry it with me in my purse. Caress it on the train. Sneak in a few kisses at work. I miss that special sort of narcissism. That strange way of looking in the mirror.

I write now and I'm highly critical. Nothing is good enough. I'll spend a night working on a poem and wake up the next morning only to find that it has bad breath, a missing tooth.
A few nights ago, I recited a poem in my dream. I was on a stage and the poem was dark and it was beautiful and it was mine. It has never been written. I was so free in this dream. So free of self-consciousness. The images had the uninhibition of some of my older work. In my dream, I felt both the rush of writing and the rush of performing. The joy was combined. I've never experienced this feeling before. I woke up from the dream and I couldn't retrieve the poem. But I smiled. Because I knew that the poet still lives.

Riding in the First Car

I teach poetry at this alternative school on the lower east side. Actually they call it a “transfer school” a place that houses students that have been kicked out of other schools or students who have dropped out. The students there are anywhere between the ages of 16-21 and with a paltry amount of high school credits.

I love this school. The class sizes are small so the students get a lot of attention. They’re separated into groups called families and they have an advisor. They are really working to bring the arts into their curriculum, which is why I’ve been hired to teach poetry there for 13 weeks.

It’s been a wonderful experience so far. I’m going into my fourth week. (Or is it the fifth?) These students are sweethearts. They are tender with tough exteriors. They have the edge that I like in students and it’s clear that they’ve experienced much more than say the high school students at the college I teach at, who are like little bunnies.

I have a really good vibe with these students, and from the first day. This week I wanted to talk with them about the narrative poem. So among the examples that I was going to present to them, I decided to perform the most intimate and vulnerable poem I possess. It’s a narrative poem about the abortion that I had back when I was 17. I couldn’t believe that I was so ready to open up to my students in this way. What is it about them?

I went in there and I did it. I performed my heart out too. I held nothing back and surprised myself by my own intensity. When I finished, there was a big gasp and then applause. Some of the girls were wiping their eyes. They were so shocked. They loved the poem so much. They kept saying it over and over and over like they couldn’t believe it, “that was so good Ms. Oh my God. That was soo good. Oh my God.”

And then the questions came, as I knew they would: “Was that true Ms?” "Do you regret it?" We ended up having a fantastic conversation about abortion and regret and the difference between safe sex and smart sex. Safe sex=using protection. Smart sex=not having sex with losers.

I love watching students write. Some dive into the page like it’s a swimming pool on a hot Florida day. Others approach it tentatively, like something they don’t altogether trust. Some court their pages like lovers. Others discard their pages like lovers.

One young lady, Ashley was stuck, said, “I don’t know what to write about Miss.” I said, think of a scar on your body and tell me how it got there. Someone came home and turned the light on in her head. She put pen to page and wrote furiously. We put on some music and they wrote to the bobbing of their heads. As I watched them, I thought of how much joy it brings me to see young people engage in the act of writing, and knowing that they're writing poems. Some knit their brows together in concentration while others remain placid with their peaceful swan-water faces. Either way, there's an inexplicable look urgency in the face of a writing poet. It's a different look from someone writing an essay or solving a math equation.

Time was up. Time to share. Ashley was ready. She said, “ok, this is very personal, so whatever goes on in the room stays in the room.” The whole room made a pact. We made sure the door was completely closed. She read this poem about her boyfriend last year who also happened to be her best friend. They were looking for something in his mom’s room—her credit card I think—and they accidentally found his adoption papers in one of her drawers. The problem is, he didn’t know he was adopted. Later that night he got the story. His natural mother died while giving birth to him and his father died on the way to the hospital— an accident.

The next day, Ashley found out that her boyfriend/best friend shot himself in the head. The dramatic situation in the poem was of her slicing her wrists with razor blades after receiving the news. One of her opening lines was: “my grief is a roller coaster, and I’m riding in the first car.”

After she finished the poem, the whole room sighed with respect for this young woman still standing. I knew I was asking for a narrative poem but I had no idea what I was really asking for...we never do. We talked about her story for a while and she was open and strong and answered all of our questions, like I did just minutes before.

After class, I walked through the windy leaf-strewn streets, in awe of all our losses—the ones we inflict on ourselves and the ones bestowed onto us. I thought of the seven year old child ghosting at my side. And the wind—the dead’s greatest excuse to touch us.

El Dia De Los Muertos

Tonight I will be celebrating El Dia De Los Muertos with friends. At the party, I'll be making pina coladas. Yum. I'm waiting for my homegirl Jessica to come here so that we can leave. Jessica is that friend that you always find yourself waiting for, no matter what. I wait. I love her company but waiting for her is slightly infuriating mostly because I hate waiting for people and to my credit, I hate the feeling of people waiting for me.

Rene just left. God, today was something close to love. Things are so good between us and our bodies are absolutely in love with each other. It's incredible, our chemistry, and it gets stronger with each passing day. Last night when I got off of work, I met him and his friends in midtown: rod, ame and ray. We had drinks--i drank really strong margaritas and started throwing lettuce off the balcony. Amy threw limes and almost hit a bouncer. We almost got kicked out. I don't really hang out with Rene's friends that often so this was fun. I clicked with Amy on a superficial level. I won't be calling her up to do drinks anytime soon but she's fun to be with.

It's cool to observe Rene with his friends. He's so alive, so animated. Fun to watch. I feel a sense of wonderment. Then he grabs my hips spontaneously and no matter what kind of music is on we dance. Times are good.

I drank too much. I took a cab home last night and as we sailed over the Williamsburg bridge, I felt so horrible, my stomach, my head...oh, why tequila on an empty stomach, why? As soon as i got out the cab and he pulled off I expressed my dinner to the concrete. Again, and again. I don't know the last time I threw up in public. I don't know the last time I threw up from drinking too much.

I felt much better though. I brushed my teeth and snuggled into bed and closed my eyes to a spinning world.

2:30am. Rene called. On his way over...

Sex olympics till the sun came up. Yum.

He spent all day here. Exquisite. He finished painting my wall. Utah Blue. I made him do it in his boxers and i took pictures while his back was turned. Wonder if I'll show them to mom.

And now I'm here waiting for fucking Jessica. Hurry up Jessica! Are you coming on horseback?

On Thursday afternoon I was having dinner with my friend Rog and guess who calls? GM!

Backstory: GM is a bobybuilder/personal trainer/kickboxer that I dated for a short time before he moved away to England and got married. Basically, the day after I broke up with Rene back in April, GM and I hooked up and we enjoyed each other for a short scintillating time. I couldn't bear to cheat on Rene but GM was far more interesting at the time and far more dangerous so I had to see what it was all about and I'm glad that I did; even though I hurt Rene. Why GM was dangerous: that man and I could talk for hours and hours and that's my fastest highway to Loveville. Me and Rene's sexual chemistry is the equivalent of me and GM's intellectual chemistry. Rene doesn't stimulate intellectually and GM doesn't really stimulate me sexually. He's not bad but not good either. A sweet kisser though.

Anyways, I was weak for GM. I could see myself falling for him and I don't say that shit often. This guy was a mind fuck. Conceptually brilliant. But, he was engaged. And now, here he was on the phone, in my ear, saying my name and right away I knew that voice. He's from my country, so he sounds like the men of my island and I gasped. We couldn't talk long because I was at lunch with Rog, but in a nutshell, I asked GM how married life is treating him and he said that there's not one benefit to doing what he did--uprooting his life to move across the world to marry this woman. My face was a sinking ship. Not one benefit.

I asked him, "please, at least tell me the lovin' is good."

He repeated, "not one."

I felt sad to hear that, but not surprised. I knew he was flying across the world to lay in bed wth misery. I could see it in his eyes; he had the eyes of an animal that knew it was going to be put in a cage. I'm not saying that's a metaphor for marraige, but I'm saying it was a metaphor for his sitaution. I'm just sorry that he hasn't even been married six months and he's already climbing the walls.

He's coming here for Thanksgiving. We made plans to see each other, perhaps dinner, perhaps a movie, perhaps great conversation, perhaps my place, perhaps perhaps. Perhaps danger. Things are so good with Rene and I don't want to mess it up. I'm determined not to mess it up. I'm determined not to let GM into that space again. GM made his choice. He has to live with it. Not me. I won't let my weakness for him mess things up. Realistically though, I think that when I see him again I will realize just how terribly I've missed him. I think things between us will be as they always have been, full of electricity and exploration. I think he will try to kiss me and I think I will let him. And that's as far as things will go.