which is visible in my writing, because I am writing this
on the back of a failed philosophy quiz,
while on the Metro North on my way to New Haven.
I got arrested, again, yesterday, because I was drunk.
There's no sleep on this line and my phone died
last night at some point, which is irrelevant because
I still feel sweaty and pale, uncomfortable but
unable to move, I am categorizing my thoughts,
and the events of yesterday, and struggling.
"Yesterday you might as well have drank all the beers
at all the bars, drank your weight in pints of guinness.
you found an Irish flag but you lost it,
you went to three liquor stores looking for drinks and your friend.
The city drained the life out of you, like it always
does, feeling listless, imagining quays and docks as you walked
down to the train station this morning and couldn't help
glaring at all the people who were shining,
and dressed for work, lives and wives and the stress of the day.
And New York drained your wallet too, they even almost
took your fake from you, but your crafty mouth did what it could;
which is often too much for your own good and you got it
back from the cop who knew that you were lying, but
drunk you find it easy to feign stubborn.
The overpriced drafts seemed appropriate at the time,
as often you erect excuses for yourself to justify
the spending of all but your final penny, yet still
the city tells you that you should be drinking Absolut
vodka and chasing with a lime not a soda.
Last night after she drained you, the city filled
your mouth and your head and the couch (pronounced bed)
with vodka and limes spilling like nickels and dimes out of slash
pockets, which is why you prefer cash and a money clip wallet.
But in the morning you were empty, thinking, "the lights that had warmed me
last night are all now shining too brightly, and while
the lampposts are out, the sky is grey and heavy and hot,
reflecting greedily off shimmering landscapes of steel
frames and panes of glass." The discomfort was heightened
by the lack of grass as heat waves emanated,
barely visible, from the concrete by your feet.
As you walked your eyes found your thighs and stayed there
not wanting to acknowledge the glares from policemen,
and it is easy to feel stalked by them on such busy streets,
and the heat of their stare made you feel as if they were
telling you to shave or comb your hair or asking where
you were going, expecting an excuse of some sort,
perhaps retort was more what they were used to in Manhattan
but you would prefer to be ignored, by them and the rest
of the shimmering denizens, functioning men
and women reminding you of constantly making tall tales
taller, wishing sometimes to make confession or find religion,
or to at least become a frequent caller on a radio show,
or a person that people wouldn't mind lending money to.
Your friends have always helped you out, though.
It's a tight spot you're in, pinched between sin and desire
ever since you could remember knowing one from the other.
So you tried to tell them to go fuck themselves,
with your eyes, but it's hard to pass judgement from the outside in,
and you more or less knew this, so you ended up flicking back
to the ground in front of your boots."
I'm sick of living as if I'm waiting for money to appear because
I know that I will spend it on beer, which is not the root of my problems
as much as the fact that I have no money to solve the ones
that require me, a liar, to be represented by something else called a lawyer.
I don't enjoy, but I also take solace in, the fact that
these commuters assume that I am the type of person
that exists only on public transportation, like
the rail between Grand Central Station and New Haven,
or on a bus going up 91, which still separates my car from the Masspike.
The immediate future has me anxious in the sense that
I don't know what to do in the present but I feel also that I must have
a plan of action regarding the infraction slip handed
to me the day before, and I need to charge my phone so
I'm scanning the dirty area by the floor in New Haven for an outlet,
absentmindedly hoping that I have enough cash left
to pay for the overnight parking in the station lot, and
to put a calculated amount of fuel in the tank. My mind wanders at a subdued pace,
wondering if I should be comparing gas prices or something,
and feeling quite small in such a big space, in the corner of the atrium
of the train station. I realized that I anticipated only
the events that would lower me further, which is an odd revelation,
but better to accept and explore this notion then to let ferment,
or even what better time then now? But I would rather wait, instead
to eat a sandwich with the girl I still loved, even though she didn't love me anymore.
