Seven Years of New York

Seven years in this city:
each year a life in-and-of itself.
Almost a decade of dosing off on subways and ferries.
Almost a third of my life, drinking too much and sleeping too little.
Seven years of writing and daydreaming at bus stops
and soaking in the colors of Brooklyn morning,
and changing, and regretting, and forgiving, and falling in love with strangers.
Seven years.
First, a year of venturing into the inky darkness at blasphemous times of night,
dancing under the hole-punched sky.
lost and terrified but hiding it even from myself,
because how lucky to be lost and lonely in this infinite city.
Then a year of isolation and joyless devotion;
locking myself into the value assigned by another.
Sleeping in borrowed sheets that smell like shame and ashtray regrets.
A year of no plan no map no money,
tripping over toes and tongues
into a 3 months of silence and asphalt.
A year of trying to outrun morning,
that sly fortune teller, in the dark of a bar.
But no matter how fast we dance,
she stalks us with her cool breath and aching glow.
Then 12 months involving 5 jobs, 14 queers, a 2 hour commute, 1 true friend, and 0 clue.
Trying to find truth in the words I wrote
but only finding more self-delusion.
And of course a year of wishing to be anywhere but here,
running away to Buenos Aires and Granada, among other places,
but never outrunning my own cursed mind and habits.
And a year of golden East Village strolls,
sharing a bed with room for two,
and discovering rhythm is not the enemy.
The year of quitting jobs and people that hurt me.
Seven years, a life time, a blink of a bloodshot eye, a jumbled mess, a chapter in this insomniac city.