Writing Samples

It is odd that something we partake in so frequently—something that has entire establishments built around its participation, something we turn to in almost every occasion—has such a mysterious etymology. There are countless origin theories on where the term “cocktail” came from: perhaps it referred to legislators’ lengthy bar tabs after their equally lengthy meetings, or maybe it came from the bastardized French word for “eggcup” and the medicinal concoction the Peychaud’s Apothecary (yup) in New Orleans served up in said eggcup. Some say it was the Aztecs, others claim it was New York, Boston, England, or Barkeep Betty Flanagan, and the list goes on ad nauseam. All of these theories are just plain wrong. Hard evidence has surfaced suggesting that the true origin of the name has a much...spicier beginning. It actually dates back to 1700’s England. Obviously horses used to be more commonplace back in the day, but there was still no shortage of people trying to pull one over on each other. Check out this definition from the 1785 A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue: “To feague (or ‘to fig’)-To put ginger up a horse's fundament, to make him lively and carry his tail well.” An owner would actually stick a piece of ginger up an older horse’s ass to raise his tail; a ‘cocked’ tail being a sign of a younger, more ‘spirited’ horse. Cock-tail was what they called the butt ginger. Talk about a suppository. Needless to say, it wasn’t a quick transition to the swanky imbibing we know today. The Brits started making a non-alcoholic morning drink, adopting the name cock-tail and using ginger or pepper to help cock their own tails and get their day started (because apparently coffee wasn’t good enough for the dirty ol’ Brits). Ginger and pepper have medicinal properties, so it helped to relieve headaches, fevers, and general body illnesses as well. It remained a morning stimulant for some time in England until about 1823, which is the earliest account of the British recipe of “gin and beer, or both, combined with a scratch or two of cock-tail in it.” Of course, even before that, America had finally moved away from home and just wanted to get hammered and stay out past curfew. So by the time the Brits caught on to the alcoholic mixture, we had already co-opted this whole cock-tail thing to basically cover all mixed drinks. Even by 1806 we figured we’d just go ahead and drop the ginger and pepper from the mix altogether and add bitters, which have a longer shelf life and still carry some medicinal benefits. Oh, and just for old time’s sake, it was still considered a morning pick-me-up until the 1850’s. BEHOLD, THE GIN COCKTAIL WAS BORN! It wasn’t until 1862 that Jerry Thomas published the first cocktail guide, but you can bet your gingered butt that the Gin Cocktail was front and center. Cocktails: You can’t get more American than that. ======= Excerpt Two: "You always want to muddle your sugars first, and that includes fruit," Pete said in his kitchen, teaching me how to build my first cocktail. "The flavor profile is better that way, and if you screw up, you haven't wasted any alcohol." He continued on as the spirited mad scientist he was becoming. He mused on variations and how all cocktails are basically descendants of only six classics. Admittedly, my brain shut off when he started talking numbers and fractions. The chrome shaker winked at me as the light merengued around the room and the ice maracas cooled my hands, bringing the contents to the appropriate texture, ‘bruising’ the liquor to paint a more vibrant flavor profile. "That's why when a drink is supposed to be shaken, you really gotta shake the shit out of it! Now, the best way to do that is..." I had no idea there was an improper way to shake something. “Let's talk about ice." Frozen water, yes I was familiar. Except that in the cocktail world Ice has a capital 'I'. I was beginning to see that everything had its proper style and careful prep work; it really was like mixing elixirs in a lab. That knowledge, along with the love that goes into anything worth doing well, is what makes each cocktail a piece of culinary artwork. That's why, when we venture out into the leftover prohibition basement speakeasies of the city, we always sit at the bar. To watch the artists at work; creating a masterpiece just for us. Somewhere along the line, Peter began bringing a notebook so that anytime he stumbled upon something great (or something he wanted to improve upon at home) he wrote it down. He also recorded plenty of Roccaforte Originals there. The book you are holding contains every cocktail featured in that notebook. After sipping the first cocktail I had ever made, Pete and I eventually had the idea that everyone fantasizes about sooner or later: "We should open a bar.” The only difference between us and everyone else, is that we actually did it. Right there in his apartment in Astoria, Queens, New York City, USA. I started as bar-back (which sounds absurd given the setting) and made some of the simpler cocktails, while he stuck with the long-form drinks and the Bartender's Choice. We held events once a month that first year; each one themed and, except for 'Murica Night in July, we dressed up for all of them. We did everything from Masquerade Night in October, to hiring burlesque dancers for a private show, to snagging a pianist to play jazz standards in the corner. People came (and still do when we revive the bar quarterly) to feel comfortable, knowing that everyone there is only two degrees separated from themselves. They come to feel welcome, classy, and exclusive. Mostly though, they come for Peter's art.

Your 2017 for-locals, by-locals guide to avoiding the tourists. Let’s face it, New York City is a tourist trap. It’s the Big Apple (Fun fact: ‘apple’ used to be slang for ‘city’...this was the ‘big’ one). Anytime something exciting comes along, it takes roughly the length of a stalled downtown A train before it’s overrun with out-of-towners. And that’s fine! Our city exists because of the come-from-aways feeding our neverending urge to sit at the cool kids’ table (People still make a pilgrimage to get a Cronut. And to check out that cookie dough store. And to try those milkshakes that look like an eight-year-old threw up an entire Dylan's Candy Bar in the back of the bus after having a few too many Milk Duds and Slim Jims on his class trip. Hypothetically..) It’s a love-hate relationship we have with our revolving door or AirBnB-ers, but alas, we know we need them. Just not all the time. We all crave a moment of solitude to douse the disproportionate rage that washes over us when we’re stuck behind a gaggle of giggling friends walking three abreast on the sidewalk (your blood pressure spiked just from reading that). Hell, sometimes we need a reminder of those who came before us, but aren’t about to wake up early on our day off to catch that morning ferry out to Ellis Island or fight the First Friday crowd at MoMa. To help you out, here are some places the tourists haven’t discovered yet; or perhaps are still too scared to ride the subway to check out. Either way, it’s empowering to feel like you belong in a city, and part of being a local means living like one. Ironically in the biggest apple of them all, it’s easy to settle for a belting your best Elphaba at Marie’s Crisis night after night; but you didn’t move to New York to find comfort in redundancy. This may be the city that never sleeps, but you do, and you spend half your life doing it. Spend those waking hours discovering something new. We have a lot more to offer than Chelsea Market and Times Square. Those are just what we serve the tourists. Best Cheesecake: Eileen’s Special Cheesecake New Yorkers don’t like talking to anyone we don’t have to, yet our favorite pastime is flaunting our fierce, unwavering opinions (read: facts), specifically with those who never asked for them in the first place. Politics aside, food is the most popular debate topic. Bagels and pizza are staples of these great islands, but it seems that the glory days of cheesecake have been left behind in the sepia-toned yesteryears of Damon Runyon. The tourists flock to Juniors because it’s convenient, historic, Obama’s been there, and their signage is larger than last year’s Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest winner (although he’s actually pretty fit, so the metaphor is a bit faulty. I digress.) Here’s my factual opinion: Junior’s is gross. Don’t believe me? Try it! Drop eight bucks on a slice that will sit in your stomach like playdough and make you feel like Violet Beauregarde rolling home to binge watch This Is Us and question your life choices. Cheesecake is a gift from the Lenape gods of Manahatta (disclaimer: this is not true; however, we did get the name Manhattan from the Native American word ‘Manahatta’ which means ‘hilly island.’ And yes, there used to be hills here before the 1811 street grid system was put in for all of us directionally challenged folk) and you should feel good about eating it. Check out the place so good they didn’t even tell 44 about it. Head down to Eileen’s Special Cheesecake situated on Cleveland St., a street most locals have never even heard of. It’s a family owned business in a cozy shop that’s been in operation since the mid 70’s. Give your $4 to the nice folks who love nothing more than to share their daily-made morsels of personal-sized lusciousness with you. Warning: a part of you will die and go to heaven when you eat these fluffy little clouds, so be sure to get 2 or 3 of them. I recommend the pumpkin cheesecake or the salted caramel (don’t worry, they have plenty of fruit options as well). Be sure to say ‘thank you’ to Eileen and her daughters who are normally behind the counter doling out their love. 17 Cleveland Pl, New York, NY 10012 Best Dumplings: The Lady on Mosco st. In the age of Yelp, everyone can feel like a Times food journalist, flouting their favorite spots as if their opinion holds the same weight as Aziz Ansari’s. Because of this barrage of Amateur Night at Zagat in the palm of your hand, it’s difficult to whittle down the best places to go. Don’t forgot a lot of the reviews online are fake, and businesses can actually pay to zhuzh their ratings. So what if you are looking for a place to scarf down some good food fast for almost as cheap as a $1 slice of za? Chinatown. One of the shortest streets in the city (I think) is Mosco St., bookended by Mott St. and Columbus Park, right at the old Five Points where DiCaprio and Day-Lewis defended their respective gangs.. of New York). There’s a small white awning on the street that says Fried Dumpling and large clouded plastic strips hang from the doorway convincing you that you may be a disposable character in a scene from The Godfather. The owner runs a tight ship. Don’t be afraid, but don’t ask questions. Have your money ready BEFORE you enter. It’s $1.25 for 5 incredible dumplings (and if you don’t have exact change, you aren’t getting money back, you’re simply getting more dumplings. $2 gets you 8 dumplings..or whatever she feels like that day.) Once you have your money ready, enter the store. Give her your money, grab a fork, take your dumplings and thank her with a huge smile. She’ll wave you away like she has no use for you anymore (because she doesn’t) and mumble something under her breath (which I always assume to be an enthusiastic ‘you’re welcome.’) Behind you are some sauces in Sriracha bottles that have found a second life. Dress your dumplings and head outside to enjoy them. Congratulations, you did it! All for the love of food. Footnote: The ONE question you are allowed to ask is if she has vegetarian dumplings. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t. It’s New York and she can do what she wants. 106 Mosco St, New York, NY 10013 Jazz: I know, I know, this city has no shortage of jazz clubs and, if you’re like my girlfriend, you just can’t figure out what the draw is to ten minute jam sessions of old guys trying to out-syncopate each other. I, on the other hand, love the genre and have subjected her to her own personal Bad Place in many a seedy jazz club all over the city. Man, I love that woman. There are only a few places that are consistent enough to return to, aren’t overrun with tourists, and have low to no cover charges. These are my personal faves. *Don’t forget to bring cash to tip the musicians! Paris Blues If you want one of the coolest experiences this city has to offer, you must take the A train (or the C, D, 2, or 3) uptown and head to Paris Blues in Harlem. Every night(!) at 9pm they have free live jazz and cheap drinks. Want food? Grab a paper plate and help yourself to the crock pot cooking up chicken, beans, and rice. This is a place for regulars, so if you’re a newbie you will be welcomed with a saxophone solo literally wailed in your literal face (much to my girlfriend’s dismay). It doesn’t get much better than an evening of live jazz in the neighborhood where it all began. 2021 Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd (at 121st st.), New York, NY The 55 Bar This place is easily overshadowed by its neighbors, The Stonewall Inn and Kettle of Fish; so much so that you’ll probably miss it the first time you walk by. This is one of those places that will kick you out if you are talking over the music, so don’t go there to party. I like to go to this place to kick off the night, as the early evening shows are less crowded and less likely to have a cover charge; although when they do have a cover it’s only $8-$10 so it’s a good deal regardless. 55 Christopher St, New York, NY 10014 Zinc Bar In need of a nightcap with some background music? Head to Zinc Bar a couple blocks south of Washington Square Park. If you want to focus on the music, there is a charge to sit in the back room where the band is playing, but chilling at the bar is free and you can still hear the music clearly (most of the time, the curtain is pulled back so you can even see the band without feeling like you need to pause your conversation.) 82 W 3rd St, New York, NY 10012 Coffee: I’m slowly becoming a coffee snob (read: addict). I love learning about everything having to do with roasting, brewing, and drinking it. I have a list on my phone of my favorite coffee shops in each neighborhood that I reference when I find myself with any amount of downtime on my hands. I’ll save those recs for another post. These are just three (and I can’t believe I’m only giving three) of my favorite places that have a bit of their own personality and privacy. Grounded Coffee House (and tea!) Walk into this oasis of tables and chairs nestled among plants and trees, breathe in the aromas of coffee, loose leaf teas, and their incredible breakfast burritos. This is a bright, cozy spot for an intimate conversation, a work sesh, or forgetting about the world outside. Take time to read the menu as they offer a ton of signature drinks, like the Honey Bee Latte: Espresso, raw local honey, and milk. 28 Jane Street, New York, NY 10014 Kobrick Coffee Here’s another place that has their own signature drinks (and a liquor license!). Kobrick Coffee may not be the most under-the-radar spot in town, as it sits in the heart of The Meatpacking District, a block from Chelsea Market and The Highline, but it does seem to be frequented more by locals than anyone else. Of course you can get your typical $9 avocado hipster toast, but the coffee (alcoholic or not) is what keeps me coming back. The warm lighting, comfy leather chairs, and tiny tables beg you to stay all day, and their various coffee contraptions give the feeling that you’ve stumbled upon some steam-punk, Rube Goldberg coffeehouse reality. For non-alcoholic I recommend the Koco Freddo (2x shaken cold brew, coconut oil, egg white), and when you get off work try the Old Slip (bourbon aeropressed through sumatra purbatua, demerara sugar, hella aromatic and citrus bitters). They also do a lot for the environment and part of their proceeds go toward that, which only makes me want to give them more of my money. Check out their partnership with the Canopy Tree Project. 24 Ninth Ave., New York, NY 10014 Tom’s Roasting Co. Yup, THAT Tom’s. The shoe people. We always feel good when we do good, and if that means we also get something for ourselves, even better. Because it’s a business model that works wonders for everyone involved, they’ve been expanding from shoes to eyeglasses and now water--which we get to to help out with in the form of coffee. With every purchase made from Tom’s Roasting Co., they provide safe drinking water to an area of the world that desperately needs it. The best part about this cafe (aside from the do-gooding) is that this place just looks like a simple shoe store from the outside. Head on in, grab a coffee, and keep walking (check out the shoes on the way). You’ll soon find yourself in their quiet BACKYARD. It’s a welcoming canopied area tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city while still allowing you to slurp up some fresh air while slurping down a fresh cup of Tom (...ok, that joke doesn’t really work). 264 Elizabeth St, New York, NY 10012 Sweets: The Sweet Life Candy Shop This is the stuff of fairy tales. While everything around it has changed dramatically, this candy shop’s been nestled comfortably in the Lower East Side since 1982, where it was purchased with a handshake. (Fun fact: in the Diamond District, a handshake is still considered a legally binding agreement.) It looks like a place you’d find in Paris, but head inside and you’ll find a chocolate selection hand curated from 12 countries around the globe offered right alongside the owner’s very own store-made sweets. It doesn’t get much more New York than that. While you’re down there, check out a classic film at The Metrograph, where they also sell candy from The Sweet Life. 63 Hester St, New York, NY 10002 The Doughnut Project Doughnuts are back in style. Ok, they’ve been back for a while, but it seems like they are becoming the new cheesecake, with people passionately promoting their favorites even if they haven’t tried the competition. The Doughnut Project has a trophy though, so my opinion is validated. You won’t find doughnuts like these anywhere else. Their PB&J doughnut is a personal fave (jelly glaze on top, filled with sometimes spicy peanut butter), but their trophy is for the beet & ricotta (beet glaze/ricotta filling). They always push the envelope and are constantly changing up their specials to cleverly reflect current pop culture and seasonal ingredients. Occasionally they even team up with local restaurants to create more savory fare (last year they teamed up with Clinton Hall to create a bacon grilled cheese with a habanero glazed doughnut as the bread, which they served on a hook, dripping its gooey goodness into a bowl of tomato soup. ‘Twas amazing.) Tip: They only make a certain number a day, so the earlier you get to this hole-y land, the better. 10 Morton St., New York, NY 10014 History: City Reliquary Museum For those of you feel embarrassed asking (like me), a reliquary is just what it sounds like: a place for relics, specifically holy relics. In the heart of Brooklyn lies a museum full of New York relics that, in their words, “connects visitors to both the past and present of New York.” This is not your typical museum. It started as a simple window display outside of the owner’s apartment with a recorded run-down of what you were looking at. Now they’ve got a whole place. And it. Is. Awesome. I don’t want to ruin anything for you, but this is like The Museum of the City of New York for locals, and admission is just $7. 370 Metropolitan Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11211 The Last Remaining Gas Lamp Post Ok, there are actually two left in NYC, but the other one is way up on 211th st, so we’ll just stick to the one in Greenwich Village. Gas street lamps were used before electricity, and almost all of them have been switched out for electric; however, head to the location on the link above, and you’ll find a short gated street. I speak from experience when I say: DO. NOT. TRESPASS. Look down the street and you’ll see a streetlamp at the far end. The light itself is electric now (because 2018), but the post has been standing there since the 1860’s. …..Ok, well, I think it’s cool. Hess Triangle It’s always inspirational to hear stories of people standing up to The Man. At Christopher Street and 7th Avenue South, you’ll see the iconic Village Cigars store that I’m sure you’ve walked by a thousand times. You may or may not have ever noticed a small triangle mosaic on the sidewalk just outside their front door. Even if you have noticed it, you may have thought it was just an old plaque announcing the store. The truth is much more intriguing. The short story is that there used to be a ton of buildings where 7th ave South runs today, and as the city expanded the roads and subway systems, they had to tear down a bunch of buildings standing in the way. David Hess owned a huge apartment complex which the city tore down around 1911, so we could easily hail a cab after getting our Big Gay Ice Cream fix. The Hess fam realized that the city had overlooked a 700 square inch(!) piece of their land. In 1922 when the city realized their flub and asked the family to donate it back to them, they said “Aw, hell no!” and tiled the property which reads, “Property of the Hess estate, which has never been dedicated for public purposes.” Pretty badass. Of course money talks and in 1938 they ended up selling the triangle to Village Cigars for $1000. A THOUSAND. DOLLARS. That’s nearly $17,600 today. And we complain about the rent for our studio apartments. There you have it! My short list for the places you can avoid the tourists and give yourself permission to live like a local in this crazy place we call home.

The media was having trouble silencing the phones of the victims while they were trying to report on the hatred; almost like the love of worried friends and family had a Pulse of its own. The Entertainer is an empty tune when you know the frantic, repeated calls will be met with voicemail forever more. The only way now to hear the voices of the fifty men and women who died because they were proud of who they are (*were). It's not about the definition of a gun used to kill. It's not about using those words to defend your right to carry them. It's not about hiding behind the constitution the way your gun is hiding in your belt just in case something happens. It's not about you being of sound mind and body and feeling scared enough to need to carry a device that takes another man's life. Or woman's. Or child's. It's about how with one squeeze of a trigger, you've asserted your authority over countless humans. A gun is a gun is a gun is a gun. Frankly, I don’t care about your definition of an assault rifle. I don't care why you think you deserve to carry a gun and your slightly darker neighbor is somehow undeserving, or how your other neighbor is gay and had it coming for him. People are people. Not everyone who is brown is an extremist. Not everyone who is black is African. Not everyone who is white is good. And where you come from doesn't matter anyway. Everyone can hurt, everyone can kill, everyone can rape, hate, destroy, assault, insult. But why? What do you think you will change? Why would that be the mark you choose to make? No one is proud to know a hater. No one defends a slaughterer. No one pats a rapist on the back and says, "Good job, Brock, that was really good work." No, you leave people scarred. Families, friends, everyone you didn't kill, you shattered their world and left them to pick up the impossibly infinitesimal pieces. But the ones who can't say anything anymore, the ones you wiped clean away with a light squeeze of your trigger, those are the ones who were living while you were busy hating. I'm choosing a different method. I have arms that aren't preceded by fire; that can squeeze and not instill fear or hate. My arms don't need a permit or a background check to carry; and my right to bear them only means I'll have to put on sunscreen before passing the bottle to you for our picnic in the park. And as the sun sets, ‘open fire’ only means that we'll be warm as we huddle around it sharing stories by the river. If I have anything to say about hate, it's that there is certainly a lot of it in the world and it’s not going away. But if we stop talking about how "if we had only," and actually do something, then maybe we can all turn the guns into hugs and a light squeeze can fill us up instead of tear us down.

The scent of turkey sandwiches and lavender hugged him as he walked through the door, just as it had for every one of his inconsistent bi-annual visits. The dark room with the tired couch and a La-Z-Boy split the fireplace, all of which faced the large-screen TV that covered most of the faux vintage-turned-antiquated (obsolete?) hardwood wall. Granddad said the big screen was due to Grandmom’s terrible vision, but the grandson had a feeling it was his grandfather's late-life gift to himself. He couldn't make it to the movie theatre anymore, so he brought the theatre home as best he could and caught up on all of the new action flicks, surround sound and all (due to the Grandmom's poor hearing, of course). Today the TV was off. Grandmom was buried yesterday. The family was sitting Shiva. The grandson, now grown, was in town for the funeral. Granddad was in his usual chair, Mom and Uncle Will were on the couch where Grandmom spent the last few years of her nearly blind, dementia-confused life. Uncle Will's dog lie sleeping under Grandmom's walker he used to guide from the couch to the bathroom and back, making sure she got to her destination safely. Our whole world becomes a 30-foot radius, and navigating that safe haven becomes just about the hardest and only thing to do. Boredom giving frustration a run for its money. The grandson brought food and kept to himself that that her scent still lingered. Granddad would probably move out in the coming months. Does every grandparent's house smell the same? Like whatever they ate for lunch at 10am or whatever was cooking for their easy-to-chew 5pm dinner mixed with the smell of their own old tissue paper skin? Mom was on her phone, responding to emails and texts from work about deadlines, and friends sending their well-wishes along. Life goes on for the rest of us. Uncle Will was nursing a case of Bud Light, and Granddad was somewhere between waking and not; watching everything, not processing anything. It was the most human he had ever seen his grandfather, as if through a lens in one of the still scenes in his action flicks. There on his chair, he was no longer 'Granddad,' but a man who lost his other half; an entire soul that he knew everything about, and created life with, leading to four generations of branches on the family tree below them. A person he grew up and old with. A truly unique ‘till death do us part.’ The grandson had only been alive for the tiniest sliver of time in his grandparents' relationship. He'd known them before he knew who they were, but he certainly couldn’t say the same of them. They've always been old. He thought about how grandparent love is unrivaled. Like a beacon of hope for young lovers. He only knew them at their seemingly best, after they'd had a stable handle on life and figured out how they operated within the 'us.' To know someone that much, and still love them unconditionally and uncontrollably says a lot. And to lose them and be totally lost, even in your 80's… Despite age, race, or demographic, everyone gets that same look on their face when they are suddenly without something they didn't realize was so deeply rooted within them. It's the same look a kid gets when he realizes his mom left the aisle in the grocery store. Terrified and abandoned. Except in the store, mom's just on the other side of the toilet paper.

The rain of cashews falls like a Charlie Brown personal-sized storm upon the subway platform. A few disinterested heads turn with a combination of pity and schadenfreude as your five dollar snack is now rat food for the class pet of the citizens of New York. Fuck. You walk away from the site like a bandit on the run, waiting five minutes, now four, for the train that’ll be here in twelve. Your silver chariot to rock you home, rock you to sleep, rock n’ roll, rock around the Christmas tree for years to come--as a team--right after you put a rock on that finger. But you see in the distance, at the far end of the platform, an old man playing a cello. The cello. What a sexy instrument. It’s big, and stands up straight while still needing to lean on you, held between your legs, relying on you to turn it on, vibrating it into sensual ripples like so many ecstatic moments that echo through time and space. Such a dichotomy between the well-loved wood and the old man playing it. His music was incendiary. Moving, literally transporting and transformative. It drew me in, took me by the hand, ripped the headphones off my head and said, “Here. This is music. This is real. This is now. That: what you’re listening to in your ears. That’s just a picture of music. Let me tell you a story. Listen close.” It tells me a story of love and loss, and highs and lows and death, compassion, and lands far and wide, and times long since past. It spoke of Mana Hata and the people who breathed here before us. And we were in these places together and forever, an evermoving, ever tugging tether that pulled me into the depths of this high-strung instrument, being moved to tears by this old man. The train comes and blasts a warm belch against my wet face, snatching the empty bag of my useless snack from my hand and bringing me back into a place I’m told is now. With it, the sound of magic is drowned out by my ride home and a tornado of dollar bills floats up and out of the cello’s coffin, swirling around the old man, scattering this way and that, into subway sludge puddles or landing lazily in the tracks. The rats are getting a rich dinner tonight. I wanted to run and pick up every last dollar. I wanted to shake the man’s hand and thank him for taking me on the journey, I wanted to shout, “HEY! WHY THE FUCK AREN’T YOU ALL LISTENING TO THIS GUY?!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He didn’t even bat an eye at his day’s work down the drain. He just kept playing. “Stand clear of the closing doors please.” bing-bong. And the music was gone. I wish I were different than I was four minutes ago. An audience of one in a town of millions. Why was nobody paying attention? I would’ve given him a dollar if I hadn’t just wasted my last one, so all I could pay him was attention. He wasn’t playing for me, but he was perhaps waiting for someone to pick up the line and I happen to be closest to the receiver. Such a lonely town we live in, where the music of paupers makes princes out of nobodies. “It’s showtime!” And I reach for my headphones.

Midnight espresso shooting through my veins, Loud, seedy, sweaty, energetic jazz and blues and oranges and reds, Float up from a cabaret somewhere unsaid. Vibrant fresh air potential arrives as whispered purples and anxious greens, Floating up upon a breeze. With you, I could sit here until the sun rises. My midnight espresso. But what if it isn't all it's cracked up to be? The jazz below could be terrible, But the muddled essence of specificity reaching our nose from the bottom of the shaker Tingles and enlightens. Perhaps the sunset is just mediocre, And maybe the sunrise won't inspire as much awe as we built up the extra early morning to be, But it seems that everything is incredible if we lose sleep over it. Will you be here when the light stretches over Brooklyn, And sweeps over the east river, longing for that “Good morning, Manhattan” kiss? Will you be here tomorrow night, When it tries to linger a little while longer with each passing spring evening, Reluctant to say goodbye, trying to get the last word in before peaking over the horizon to kiss some other city good morning? It's just a sunrise. It comes it goes. Everyday. Simple. Easy. Don't get me wrong, I can't promise I'll be here either, But for now I'm enjoying your midnight espresso in the sky. Does anyone really know what Mercury in retrograde means? ======== A cursor coyly winks at me with white on either side. A broken clock is peering down with hands not unlike mine. The days will keep on passing even when the time stands still, But from my desk I can’t see the dead plant upon the sill. The mirror seems to keep the most relentless track of time, The dirty dishes piling up, and the empty bottle of wine, Distractions lose your traction, and tomorrow still will come, But it’s hard to walk to your own beat when your head and heart are different drums. ======== Hundreds of stories in this city, Yet not a drop to drink, Everyone bee-lining is a pity, Claiming they're the queen and trying not to sink. Hundreds of stories take you up to the top of the world, Where it's quiet and serene And the lights make it look so clean. The bees and ants are headed to and fro. I'm glad I can't hear them come and go. You don't learn about people from afar, It seems we're all just fireflies in a jar. ======== I wanna run to the top of the hill, And sit there until I catch my breath. I want to look down over all the town, I can't see them frown at such a depth. I gotta look out and see me there, Floating above this square and tepid life, A lack of drive and small hive mind, My bored anxiety could drown me in the sea. And I, I'm home and homesick. And I, I gotta find a way out quick. And you, you got it all figured out, But we, we're all one in the same, so I have my doubts. What happened to this place of mine, I've stopped chasing time and started sleeping in. Starting to think that the quest ain't here, Maybe somewhere near, just need to light the fire. The sand is quick, and the wick is short, Looking for right cohorts may start with me. Gotta take care of the air I breathe, I gotta take my leave from this hilltop view. Get down to what I'm here to do, Maybe it's me and you, maybe that's not what's true. Either way it's time to dive into something fresh and new, I gotta feel real soon. ======== Mornings on a hill in my living room, The sun kissing my chilled skin, As it pulls away from the horizon and envelopes me in its rays, Taking me by the hand and ushering me to a full French press Made from small batch, slow roasted beans From a once-tired-turned-up-and-coming town somewhere across the country. One sip takes you where you can't afford to visit As you sit on your old-bed-turned-living-room-sofa, Speckled with worn pillows from a distant friend-of-a-friend's storage unit purge. Nothing bad, nothing particularly wonderful. It's quiet in the morning, Here in this hilly-land-turned-flat-crowded-city, Looking out at the world through a spiderweb-cracked screen. The sun says it's time to clean up the cobwebs, And clear out the storage unit in my own treasure chest. It's never going to stop rising to my occasion.