Friday, March 28, 2014

It's all about the weather

What a year for weather, and seasons. This is the year that seasons were made for. Summer was hot and humid. Fall was cool and damp and refreshing. Winter was cold, snowy, and long. And now, spring is springing, and April is about to usher in plenty of showers (as it should).

Monday, March 24, 2014

One more

One more storm before we break
To the sunny skies of springtime
One more spray of snow
Before we bid that winter go,
Before we say our terse goodbyes

Another round of cold before we greedily soak up the sun
So take a gasp and hold it in
We'll wait (impatiently) for spring to lift it's timid head again
To spread its fingers over all the flowers
Over limbs and branches unfurling into leaves, please

You bitter winds! Stop blowing down so fiercely.
You haven't got much left in you, do you?
So go on, get out. We don't want your icy breath about here anymore.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

It Might As Well Be Spring

There's something in the air today. You can feel it, like a sigh of relief after holding your breath for a very long time. You can feel it in your limbs and in your hair, in how they belong out on the sidewalk, in Central Park, or by the East River. You can feel it in the not-quite-humid way the water hangs in the air, with it's tinges of garbage and freshness and salt.
It's getting warmer. Spring is coming. The concrete has a happier quality to it. You can step out into the city like you can't when it's winter, with your ankles out and everything.

I felt like I greeted an old friend this morning. Hello, New York. Glad to see you stirring and shaking off your sleepy hibernation. Let's get coffee soon.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014


This purple noise... swirling about my nose, I can't help breathing it in. It tastes smoky and dark and delicious - like wine from a particular wineglass. Carpets that smell like church and basements - a lingering mold that flavors this stew of music and booze and bodies, oh-so-particularly. The faithful and the foreign linger here, in their respective bubbles, treasuring their own respective baubles from a night well spent, or misspent. But the bass strings play on, and on, and on... moving this purple air in pulses towards my ears, my heart, my head.