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Sitting in a park under the Queesborough Bridge, a beautiful Henna necklace was drawn on my neck. It looked great with my black dress.
See the map of this post from Astoria Queens.
The passion of sex has become intertwined within our modern notions of love. Sharing loving moments with another person is the most primal human desire. And SEX is the most intrinsic physical expression of that love.
BUT if you’re home alone on Saturday night, without the tender touch of another, how could you possibly fulfill your desire? Read a book of course!
Each turning page contains a poem of loving tenderness. Skim the pages one at a time OR watch as passion explodes!
As infamous New Yorker Woody Allen says,
“Don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone I love.”
All the hoping and praying
all this city
ever did was
like a tot to a tit
trying to squeeze milk, milk
and more milk
from her blemished breast.
The harbors’ mother
tarnished to reptilian green
slowly bows to the burden
shows her chameleon skin
and crawls slow
into deeper waters
leaving her pedestal, cloak
and pointed coronet.
The bus driver keeps telling us, “Move back to the rear.”
But no one is listening, people plugged in
with their white earphones, their bluetooth headsets
singing and talking to no one, but loudly.
The driver’s not going to move unless we retreat further into the bus.
I can’t go anywhere, pressed against a heavyset man wearing a backpack.
I’d rather walk, but it’s 30 degrees out and windy. No one wants to move,
did I already say? We finally go and at Calamus Street, I almost crack up,
literally, like Van Gogh, my head almost splits in two. Forty people
cramming to get on and we’re already 10 over quota. Everyone’s a critic.
I’m a critic at 7am when I just want to get on the subway, get a seat,
go to work to make my money and pay my bill. ‘It boils down to bills,’
my dad used to say. Boiling bills, we work to pay and we pay
to work, but not really in that order always, though it seems so.
Oh the subway, we finally make it and people are pushing and shoving
and It’s no goddamn race someone yells. People come to blows at 7am,
did you know? Have you ever witnessed two elderly women having a slapping
fight? A homophobic man reapetedly yelling FAGGOT FAGGOT at the top of his lungs
because another man bumped him? It’s not too pleasant
traveling among strangers, among that energy. No wonder we plug in,
pretend we’re alone, horse blinders protecting us from the universe.
On the local train
the seer in the corner rhapsodizes
to all, but really to himself, he knows
what is good and true, but he’s lost sight.
He sleeps fitfully splayed across the bench
a waking dream, recurring nightmare,
the lullaby of Next stop
and Northern Boulevard.
I’m going home,
I’m going home.
In case you were wondering, yes, The New York Public Library (NYPL) has a YouTube channel, and the “Treasures of The New York Public Library” playlist is an amazing resource for all that obscure archival footage you never knew you were looking for. Start here with “The New York World’s Fair, 1939-40” and then travel to Manhattan’s Sputyen Duyvil Creek in “Mapping the World” with curator’s from the Map Division.
In New York City, agriculture takes on a whole new meaning in the urban landscape. Agriculture is not found in fields, but in apartments in the form of plants and food. The roots of co-op’s and community gardens lie in the kitchens of the city’s elders, who feed us and raise us and preserve memory of simpler times past. When I think of urban agriculture, I think of my grandmother who never runs out of things to say and would never turn down a hungry mouth to feed.