holy shit.
what a return to the richness of my city, my dove.
Eric and Franco are fighting like motherfuckers.
and dragging me into the middle of it.
I realize.
I don't have much.
in the way of things.
the weight of world possessions.
with worn shoulders.
I split my days between Brooklyn and the Upper East.
hoping I am handsome enough.
to get a job, an apartment, a girl.
still trying.
to ignore the past.
but action is required because.
loving is labor and life is forever.
I've been here before.
lost and longing for newness and air.
with friends fighting.
and the internet is not my friend.
not surprised.
in a sense, it don't come easy.
in a sense, it never will.
I look for writing that is not there.
I wish.
I could ask someone.
how someone like me gets where he is supposed to be going.
but my streets, my pigeons, leave it up to me to figure it.
part of me.
just wants to call it a knife.
and cut loose again.
but I have done that too much.
I promised.
New York City that I would give her a good go again.
another chance at hurting me.
a lick of inspiration left over from last life or a new one.