I was so willing to pull a page out of my notebook, a day, several bright days and live them as if I was only alive, thirsty, timeless, young enough, to do this one more time, to dare to have nothing so much to lose and to feel that potential dying of the self in the light as the only thing I thought that was spiritual, possible and because I had no other way to call that mind, I called it poetry, but it was flesh and time and bread and friends frightened and free enough to want to have another day that way, tear another page.
Eileen Myles, Notebook 1981
Waking up with a smile. The coffee is hot and yummy in my tummy. Someone keeps on throwing corn and seeds under the bikes during the nights. Every morning it’s the favorite place for a crew of sparrows. They swagger between my spokes and one of them took a yellow-green tiny shit on my handlebars (the penthouse!). The sunlight is overwhelming, affirming the new day. All the windows in the street echo the houses on their opposite to distorted wonderlands.
The freezing air bites the cheeks.
I am thinking about sirens, about signals, about desires, silver lines on the horizon.
Voice recordings, time zones, boundaries, daylight savings.
Spirits: are you in good spirit?
How are your spirits? Thanks, I don’t drink.
The tiny painting waits for me on the bike lane that starts on the corner of 1st Avenue and Delancey. It looks a little fucked up, so I drive by at first. After a few yards, I feel too heartbroken and turn, riding back against the traffic. This has definitely spent the night on the street. Honey, how did you get here? You don’t smell like piss at least. I wind my lanyard around its waist and tie it to the gym bag, it finds shelter between back and bag, a fellow traveler.