Deconstructed Devotional of Desire

Deconstructed Devotional of Delusion Desire Denial.

1-12-16. 9 am. Jonas has left piles of snow to my waist on the unplowed streets. We sit in the only open coffee shop. Alone.


I adore you. All of you. Is all I can dribble out in a sad attempt to find words for this feeling of elation I have just sitting across from you. It’s too soon to fully dive myself into more permanent exclamations, and I have not yet mastered the language well enough to describe feelings that seem bigger than myself.


I forget to introduce you, not because I am ashamed of you… but because I feel like I’ve always known you.

“Who, him? What do you mean, you don’t know him? He is the extension of me. This man is the physicalization of my heart, body, mind. My place of wonder, dreams, contentment. My heart song. My euphoria. My eureka! My realization. My change… I’ve known him all my life.”

…or part of me has. A part of me that has awoken at last.


I have never felt so full. There was always something missing before…

Rarely have I had the pleasure of sitting in complete contentment. I am spoiled by you. I want for nothing. I am not worried, anxious, troubled.

I am here.

Present in the presence of this present I have been given by you.

Bathing in an ocean of gratitude. Nourished in the light of you. The sight of you. “I’m happy just to be with you”, The Beatles chirp in my music box of my mind.

The highlight of my days require no plans or actions, but the freedom of just being with you. Just. BE-ing. Human BE-ing. Sitting in the moment, and enjoying it fully. Seeing color for the first time. Appreciating the love that surrounds me, in everything that we see… you’ve awaken my spirit, you’re my teacher…my guide… my yogi…my savior. I worship you. I could build monuments in your honor.


This future icon of a man. This inspiration. Even the morning son can’t resist kissing your face as you search for your next move in the window revealing mother nature, now blanketed in snow… resting. Anticipating. Your face relaxed. Gorgeous eyes focused on something I can’t see. I want to trace and retrace the lines of your face until my entire body can recite you by heart.

Oh, my heart. She never stood a chance.

How this inspiration can find inspiration in the incomparable waking hours of downtown. The sun only seems more divinely delicious when reflected in your eyes.

I’ve seen the future. My words fail me as I try to describe how alive you make me feel… as if I’ve never known what it is to live until this moment.


I am amazed by how captivated I am sitting across from you at this coffee shop; watching you work. Your creativity sparking with the light of new life in your deep mocha eyes and flowing, uncontrollably (overflowing?) from your fingers as you furiously scribble onto sheets of recycled paper…old invoices, correspondence, venues, contracts…

I love the process. Of you. My favorite is watching the wheels turn. My heart flutters. You leave me for a moment, your mind retreating to a realm in which your dreams are realized and brilliance is born. You take ownership of your deserved success. I’ve never believed in someone so undoubtably. I am taken by the profile across from me, like the oil painting portraits of great men collected and circulated in our history books, protected and displayed in the best museums. I want to study you.

You look out the window for a moment as you go on this journey. I can’t help being caught, entranced by you. This gorgeous profile of a man changing the world. Your eyes reflect the sunlight as she, in turn, highlights the intricacies of your face as if carved by Michael Angelo himself. You are a work of art. Worthy of the heavens.


You are as focused as a soldier going into battle. Fearless as the undefeated commander. Passionate as the patriot. I believe in the cause; in you. I faithfully march to your war drums.


Back and forth, like crashing waves resolving themselves onto shore, you switch from your accelerated writing, hardly keeping up with the speed of thought, then returning to the still, calm waters of deep thought. I feel honored to witness the sacred ritual of creation. You’re brilliant. Your process. Your limitless power. Your active creation of success.

But more than anything. I continue to be floored by this sight before me, evoking both uncontrollable desire/lust and overflowing, ever-grateful adoration.


…I didn’t know this would be our last time together. I protested when you asked me to leave. I supported you endlessly. I don’t understand what you mean when you say I deserve what you can’t give. I didn’t ask for it.

….To Be Continued….



A Collection Of Incompletes

#3 – 1/3/16

The terrifying notion was maybe none of it was real, all chemical.

…These moments of euphoric limitless, weightlessness, infinite joy…. were formulaic.

Timed. Predictable. Measurable.

We are creatures of habit. In a desperate pursuit of happiness, we deny our faults and label them “the past”, “change”, “growth”, “transformative”. We hold out for “new beginnings”. Are we truly changing? Have we found something real? of depth? This “true” emotion. Did we “just know” that it was “meant to be”? Are we complete now? Is this it? Is the lifetime search for wholeness finished?

Or are we victims of a build up of lactic acid, legs aching from running away?

Tired. Lonely. Horny….Bored.

It feels so easy to rest our burdens and responsibilities on another. In denying that we still have no fucking clue who we are, or how uninspired our own lives have been, we hide behind the façade of meeting someone new, impressing them…. feeding our glutionous egos with the free-flowing compliments that dribble out of the stupefied victim falling in love with us. A new beginning. “Like” me. Love me. Like a living, breathing Facebook page, I’ll only show you my best angles. Everything goes through my artfully sifted filter, designed to constantly impress and intrigue you. You’ll never know the truth; who I was before. Living for the approval of others. Un able to walk without holding a hand. Unable to live, to adventure, to invent without another. Unable to think without someone ele’s opinion being fed into my ear… non-organic inspiration. A people-pleasure. I’m in the business of making everyone around me happy, saying exactly what they want to hear into their fat heads.

No one knows. No one sees. So happy to be surrounded by self-assurance they don’t even notice that I’m not tangible. An apparition. Translucent. Reflective. Showing them how wonderful and worshipped they are… by me.

Giving them so much, there’s nothing left of me, for me. I don’t know how to just be. Desperate to find another to interact with me. Another to confirm my existence. I don’t know what to think of me without the approval of others. “Tell me what I am”.



…..being far more cool and interesting than we ever were alone at home, watching Netflix in our underwear and half-heartedly masturbating while over indulging on foods with absolutely no nutritional value.

#4 – 1/9/16

God, She looked like shit.

There isn’t a better way to put it. This was the girl I remember winning me over with her incredibly tight frame, radiant charm, crystal-blue eyes and soft, plump pout. All eyes always on her. I just wanted to take her hand and drag her to everyone I knew. “Look how beautiful! Can you believe it?! She’s just as crazy about me!”

Late nights smiling uncontrollably just at the memory of her. A reminder of her scent flooded my body with what can only be described as divinity. I clung to her late in the night, refusing to let her go. Hanging on as long as I could. Her angelic face buried deep inot my chest. I was soothed to sleep by he soft purr of her slumber, as her light breath tickled my torso. “It’s so easy”, I thought… I was constantly clown away by her beauty. Waiting to wake up.

I was jolted awake.

Here she was, now, crystal blue eyes looking dull and lifeless, surrounded by a glossy mix of yellow and bloodshot red. A shaky foundation of deep, dark black and purple fought against the lower lids and allowed what little there was of her remaining to peer through. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wanted to shut out all of the light.

Her once lushes lips were thin, crusted over form lack of use, of hydration. They atrophied into a downward slope of dissatisfaction, fatigue and defeat. Her sweet milk completion had no faded into a malnourished pale , she could almost disappear into the gray winter cityscape, if it weren’t for the various red, dry and aching scabs littered around my former source of inspiration.  The only proof of life in this decaying sight.

She had let herself go… that’s an understatement. Parts of her poked and prodded and tested the threading of her abused, dingy and wrinkled outfit. She spilled out of the top of her jeans, evidence that her shirt failed to disguise as she struggled to keep it below her navel. It fought with her as she violently pulled and tugged at it throughout the night.

Her hair reflected the street light like an oil spill, with small reminders of blonde throughout the long, hardened, neglected mess. It looked wet.

It felt unnecessary to force pleasantries. No one had the energy to deny the wrecked, soiled remnants of a battlefield standing before me. All I could manage to mutter was,

“You made it.”-

January 2016


Why is it “endearing” and “charming” when the inspiration of pop songs are girls who drink coffee late, eat chocolate in the morning, spend all day in bed, take off their heels and refuse to mask their faults… but when I do it, it’s unhealthy, reckless, irresponsible, self-destructive and undesirable?


I’m an overachiever. I enrolled in the advanced courses of Life. I like to study difficult Life lessons and learn them the HARD way.


Dear God, I think I’ve lost him. I felt him leave me. I felt the love and light torn out of me.

I want to give him his space, but I know that’s all he needs to see a life without me… that’s all he needs to see; that he never needed me at all.


She laughed until she cried. She felt both the release and immense anguish upon the realization that she had no idea what the fuck she wanted… no idea what she was doing. She had no idea who she was.

March 2016


I’m itching for an affair… the rush of new infatuation through my veins. Thoughtlessness. Numbness. All pleasure all the time. Lust. My drug of choice.


And then one day it happened:

I woke up one morning-

And forgot to miss you.

“You might wanna slow down…”

I opened my eyes to the watercolor painting-esque figure meeting me at the bottom of my bourbon glass just before the oversized ice cubes crashed into the tip of my nose. The wavy apparition looked concerned. I swallowed the last smokey drop.

“The point of the ice is to sip your drink. You know, enjoy it”, the figure nagged.

I put down the glass with triumphant force as I politely wiped the remaining whiskey from my upper lip with the sleeve of my flannel. (Because I am a lady). The judgey bartender glanced over upon the thud of my quickly (impressively) emptied glass against the cherry wood bar top and quickly collected the glass, shaking his man bun side to side as he wordlessly refilled it, noticeably lighter on the rocks. I hoped the physical commentary wouldn’t shake his long, well groomed beard hairs into my drink. But appreciated that he didn’t bother asking the obvious.

….to be continued….



On The N Train 1/13/16 7pm

There was something about her sweet face, squeezed between the hood of her bright blue winter coat, covered with snowflakes and a big eyed, platinum blonde Elsa from Frozen conjuring some winter war on her chest. The little one seem unphased by the stomach-churning aroma of decay and toxic secretions that had wafted from the streets of the city onto the train car. Mid-winter, the aroma dwelled any indoor heated area, as every living thing fled to the few available sanctuaries from the biting, relentless cold. I twisted my face in defiance of the sensory overload, contorting my nose so that only the minimal amount of oxygen could pop into my lungs; enough to keep me alive for my commute home, but sparing me from overindulging in the stench of overcrowded train car. Panting like a dog, I lamaz-breathed in my corner, while sucking in my “winter pudge”, (which had stuck around for the past two winters…and summers) as the next army of commuters crammed themselves, unrealistically into me.

But her face was angelic. So relaxed. So innocent. Absorbing everything, thrilled by something as mundane as the piercing recorded “ding” of the train doors closing. She was silent… unusual for such a little one. Unusual for rush hour. Unusual for this wildly unpleasant commute. Upright in the stroller. Thinking. Wheels turning. Absorbing. Judging?

Her mother was practically collapsed into the wall in physical defeat as she  sat down for possibly the first time that day. Her head leaned into the once-reflective pole, now covered in slime New York. Still catching her breath, she stuffed old headphones into her ears immediately, mechanically…completely surrendering to the vibrations snare drums and rhyming couplets about superficial worries that seemed miniscule in comparison. The chord near the auxiliary connector was completely stripped; just exposed wires. I saw that she sought refuge here often. She looked young, and disinterested. We all got to enjoy her music that destroyed her eardrums with unforgiving volume levels.

She didn’t hear it the first time… I don’t know if anyone did.

More than usual this train was clouded with an exhausted and angry haze that seemed to pour in endlessly with every stop, leaking through the sliding doors:

They open. Another frustrated sigh. They shut. An annoyed glance flares violently across the car. They open again hurried footsteps exit, running down the weak, feeble and slow. They close, shoulders force their way through the sea of mediocrity and dissatisfaction. Another Wednesday. Halfway there, but it’s hard to see the glass half full instead of focusing on the fact that some asshole drank half your glass. All you had left.

But I heard her… A soft exclamation at first. Her eyes were completely fixated on… what? She was entranced.

….To Be Continued….


Quickies: February 2014


The tide’s coming in,

And our footprints in the sand

Wash away with the vast endless empty.

I wanted to hold on forever

But you can’t catch the sea.

You seeped through my fingers


But sometimes the flowers

Are just weeds

And the chills you feel

Are from a breeze

The aches and pains

Were never about me

You painted a picture

So you don’t see

Painted a picture

All over me


But late in the night,

Beyond the midnight hour,

When he is next to you, his back turned

And your brain’s running at full power.

Do you remember her laugh, the light and free melody?

Do you remember the dreamer, ambitious and full of energy?

Do you remember the dancer, arms stretched and whirling wildly?

Do you remember, the girl you used to be?


He says you’re stressed, you need to relax.

You fake a smile, use clever syntax.

He’s attractive, patient, loving and kind.

Perfect on paper, but chooses to be blind.

You divert him away from the secret you bare:

It wasn’t a change in feelings; but that they were never there.


I wanna be the smile, that rests on the corner of your mouth.

The one that spreads across your face & lights those eyes I’m always talking about.

I wanna be the reason you pluck the strings on your guitar.

I want you to notice the outfit I wore to meet you at the bar.

I want you to see me as witty, cleaver, crazy, sexy, cool.

But I want to bite my tongue, bury my head, stop acting like a fool.

I want to be the waist that is wrapped by your strong arms.

I want to be the one you strive to woo with your wicked boyish charms.

…. I want to unsee the night you gave her a kiss-

But more than anything, I want to stop feeling like this.

Road Trippin’… Bolting for Baltimore. 


Here goes everything….


I felt beads of sweat begin to form on my brow as I pressed myself against the wall of the narrow stairway in my Queens, New York apartment. Somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd landing of my 4 floor walk (climb) up, there was a standoff:

Me, hands filled with an overflowing book bag-turned-suitcase within the last 45 minutes of frantic packing, a second bag on my shoulders determined to shorten my spine by at least two inches, a wristlet dangling from one of my red and white clenched fingers, keys hanging from my beltloop, somewhere an addressed envelope balanced in the heap I carried, and a bagel that was recently delivered to my front door temped my tongue as it clung to my lips and lay in my tightly clenched jaw.

Her, one of the many neighbors in this building that always greets me with the blank stare of unfamiliarity, despite my off-and-on two and a half years in this building, orange-“tanned” skin, bleach “blonde” hair, covered in large, brightly colored “jewelry” and carrying… someone’s… baby in a car seat. The parents hardly make the climb to the door anymore, so she’ll meet them on the sidewalk. One of the many perks of her “business”. 3 had already arrived this morning, and it wasn’t quite 8am. I had the pleasure of waking to the sweet melody of screaming infants in the hallway. The high, soprano shrilly out of their tiny shaking bodies echoing and rising until they erupted from the rooftops of this 4 floor walk up.

I nearly slammed into her and innocent life as I rounded the corner of the banister, throwing my weight back and balancing myself out with the weight of the bags to keep myself from toppling over.

She was completely unaware of the fact that I had just saved her life and that of the future generation. She slowly met my panic-stricken eyes with a smile, her razor sharp voice pierced the echoing cave of a stairway,

“Guh moarn’n” she coughed in a thick Long-Geye-Lind dialect. I watched a large, wet, black mass exit the gap where her right canine used to be and land unforgivingly on my cheek. I felt it splatter upon impact. I didn’t dare wipe it away or bring attention to her bio-attack, from both a southern sensibility of wanting to be polite and comfortable, and being completely incapacitated by unnecessarily full bags. Still, I gave a very welcoming nod and “Hi, how are you?”; a question we both knew was redundant and disingenuous. That, and, with the bagel still clenched in my jaw, it came out more, “Mrph, ‘Ow rawer ooo?”

After our pleasantries, we stood, staring. A stalemate. Neither one of us could move forward, without the other party moving back, dangerously, and risking dropping our respective precious cargos.

And that is when,  dear (patient) reader, I found myself pushed between a concrete wall, and the aggressive bosoom of my AARP card-holding neighbor. I felt my neck resist as my face was pressed harder and harder against the wall with each 1/2 inch shuffle her delapidated flip flops progressed.Decades old paint chips flaked onto my sweater, as I choked back the aroma of lady speed stick and menthol cigarettes. I defiantly angled my head straight up, as if singing with Charlie Brown and his friends, to save my breakfast. We were both in complete denial that this was going to be a success.

…to be continued…