Circling Sylvia

Sylvia Plath took her life
when she was only thirty years old.

Her son took his own life
on my thirtieth birthday.

Sometimes it feels like
all I'm doing is circling Sylvia

slowly down the drain.

New York

You may love New York
but New York does not love you.

New York is a mangy dog
that does its damndest
to shake all of us fleas off.

three weeks of rain (draft)

(notes)

I don't walk the streets
When it pours
I don't want the streets
when it shines
and these three weeks of rain
are going to be the death of me

"Stormy weather" in the dark
Etta's gray cloud, a rocking chair, an ark
on the BQE, Queens-bound
We'll all float off into Long Island Sound
drinks in hand
paper umbrellas in our wet hair

I am vertical and expecting
Eye to the sky
for any hint of blue
"Can't have any rainbows without rain"
the Nextel commercial chirps

Don't touch the drops, they may burn
Puddles form to be destroyed by tires
And I'm tired of the constant splashing swoosh
The damp that settles on skin like spider webs
Never quite wet, never quite seen or felt

No, you can't have any rainbows
without any rain

former (draft)

I am too bitter to taste
Crystallized, like old honey
Dried to powder, to dust away
my sweet has molded, faded

I have closed up shop
ignored the demand
the window shoppers peer through grates
I huddle on the floor
Chin to knees hopping they'll go away

leaving new york (draft 2)

"I'm leaving New York
and I'm not coming back."

I feel adult and important as I say this
As if somehow in my depression and haught
I could claim that the scene is over, that it matters to no one
Then I don't have to admit it kicked my ass
that my tail is between my legs

"New York is for the rich and the young."

We're in my Brooklyn living room
my former Cook Street friends, here by way of
Portland, by Seattle, by a Minnesota MFA program
It's gray outside, I say they brought the storm
that kept us up all night
as I waited for the fire escape by my head to spark

Joey says doors just kept shutting
He had no choice to go
It was a sign
Becca agrees, but they have interlocked hands
and five years of love between them

I always thought I'd leave New York
I just never thought I'd do it alone
I never thought any of this would happen
and I whine and lament the shift in paradigm
in these empty arms of my mine --

I stop and smile
say
"I just can't seem to meet anyone."

We joke and reminise of the days I had four dates a week
when I wore the same black dress, rinsed in the bathroom sink
and how I had perfected the first kiss and first sway
I always was good at finding them
so damn bad at making them stay

It's been raining for two weeks
My cat ran away again
Through the drizzle I peer past fences
I hang posters, I pray for a glimpse of black
in the trees, in the bushes
I don't think she's coming home
this time, I refuse to cry
to think of Audrey Hepburn
in alley, in New York, in heels, in rain
"cat cat cat cat oh cat!"

The useless feeling lives in my hands
Paralyzes my arms, locks my elbows
My eyes glaze and my memory is faulty
"It's for shit, my memory is for shit!"
I slam my hand on the table then remember to smile
Pretend it's ok that being drunk for a year is funny
That climbing out of one bed and into another is fine
that I don't miss 2005, who needs it anyway
And that I'm perfectly ok with this solitude
that hangs from my skin like dew, like spider webs,
like lipstick dried and powdered and crushed in purse bottoms

Like lipstick
I prufrock my way, party to party
chairs bruise thighs
Words tumble from my lips, meaningless
I cover up breasts I used to bare
I should want to be here,
I tell myself over bar room bathroom sink
I should want to care,
Hand to reflection,
how the fuck did I get so old?

meaningless
i don't want meaningless
i don't want the man who calls
in love only with my spread
meaningless
i don't want meaningless
time is running out
meaningless
for god's sake, i don't want
meaningless

So yes
I'm leaving New York
Leaving it to the rich
Leaving it for the coupled, united
Leaving it for the young and foolish
Leaving it for the dreamers
Leaving it for those who buy the postcards

Sinatra said
if you can make it here
you can make it anywhere
but he never sang about how long
you had to stay

And I don't know
If I'm moving on
Or if I'm running away

clock and glock

I wanna buy a bottle
head for tracks, any tracks
and walk and find moonlight
I wanna buy a bottle
and I wanna forget your face
and slaughter all hope tonight

I don't wanna care no more
I don't want to feel the oceans in my belly
Can't I reject all my desires and complete myself in
selfish and half-assed ways?
Can't I buy a gun and grease it up in a frying pan?
Trade it for a plot of land and more silent womb?

I'm going back to bed
I'm going back to bed
Or I'm not going to like
how this ends

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