empire guard

a nervous new guard in full maroon garb of a uniform
finds the elevator and steps on -
glancing
around at the Starbucks cups and sharp eyes of America's
elite work force.

the elevator stops, the guards moves his eyes back and forth,
smooths out his uniform front, looks up,
and jaunts off into the mirroring marble lobby -

golden hearted as the gilded edges of the lights around him.

dresses and high heels flutter in the light
and reflect on the marble floors.

state of mind

When I was younger I thought of New York as the coldest place in the world. Cold in the sense that I felt alone. I thought that girls with fluffy bangs and shiny and loud polish on fake nails wearing short skirts filled the streets of New York. I thought of it as stale - like everything smelled like burnt coffee and appeared a tinge more orange than the rest of the world. I imagined New York to be a place I would want to see maybe once or twice, and then I thought I'd never really want to see it again.

Coming here was invigorating. Walking outside of my apartment building there are people of every race filling 34th Street - some business men, some hipsters, some poor, some rich, some working, some unemployed, some tourists, some who know nothing besides the city, some fat, some skinny.

There's no way I would ever want to give up the chance I have here, but when I walked back to the Empire State building today from the train, I realized that New York is as cold as I had originally thought.

If I were to live here I would have to have a true safety net of friends. I would still only talk to eight or nine people on a regular basis, and I would have to look at my phone, iPod, or newspaper on the subway (today I read The Thorn on the train). I smiled at a business woman today, and she didn't even notice.

New Yorkers aren't mean, but they are terse. They get where they need to go and make no time for laggers. I want to savor life a little more.

If I don't savor moments, life becomes an orange blur filled with exhausted days running on possibly burnt coffee.

lunch break

hungry journalists, and the 99 cent pizza place waited a block away,
past the smoke of hotdog stands and hoards of dawdling tourists on 33rd Street.

dollar bills in hands for cheesy slices.

a long and narrow corridor led to the large circles of pizzas on a small counter in the back -
and a languishing Indian server looked at the eager customers wearily.

two greasy slices on an undersized paper plate on a tray too large.

journalists talked curiously to one other as they chewed,
a hungry eater wore unsatisfied eyes,
the servers gawked, and so we slid off the slimy stools.

I thought I had overcome the sensory overload I experienced so much when I go to new places. I don't like the unfamiliarity right off the bat. I don't like the ignorance I feel when I'm out of control of what I smell, see, and hear.

But the small Hispanic woman sitting next to me on the bus coming up from Baltimore reminded me of how much I miss out on if I close my eyes and ears to what happens around me. I quietly watched her as she pulled her tote bag down from the rack above halfway through the trip and pulled out a spicy chicken sandwich rapped in a single piece of foil. Carefully she peeled back the silver foil and took slow bite after bite. I couldn't see her eyes beneath her hair, and she didn't look around as she ate. The smell consumed all of our seat and the ones around it.

The black woman sitting a few rows in front of us toted a daughter dressed in a small frock-like school uniform. The mother darted her eyes to the back and then the front of the bus continually; she wore a hairnet all the trip up to New York and finally - at the end of the trip - pulled it off as if it were a clump of hair stuck in the drain she didn't want to pull out.

The lights outside of my room illuminate my desk and bed even at night. It's slight but always noticeable, and in the quiet at 3:00 in the morning I hear every siren outside and the mattress beneath me becomes harder on my sore back.

Tonight a vendor outside the Empire State building tried to sell me sugar-coated cashews. His accent lured me in, and I stood and talked to him for a while. His wife stood and watched our conversation - smiling without any words - but I knew she was thinking about our conversation because she graciously watched our conversation unfold.

The guard just inside the building smiled at me like dad-like men used to smile at me when I was younger and I wanted a piece of gum or something. He asked me how he could help me, standing chipper in his dark red suit. "I think you're the person I want to talk to."
"What? Well, I don't know about that." He smirked. He couldn't help me because he's just a guard. I wanted help from a man in a deep red suit. Alas.

The older girls who ask questions during class are quick to come up with good words and calm as the sea when they pose them to the speakers.

I don't want to ever give up getting overdosed by what I see or hear or smell.

A dog that doesn't know how to play.

A computer that is losing battery power.

A door closed early in the evening for sleeping.

Light from a small lamp bouncing off of blank walls.

Eyes refusing to look into mine.

Crumpled clothes fallen on a cold floor.

A hurried good bye.

An empty coffee mug in the morning.

A mirror void of reflection.

Unfilled corners of a room.

A talented teenaged boy.

A reunion following shoddy correspondence.

Small-town businesses at night.

New pavement.