I eat the banana it is good

The snow boots sit dripping onto the mat. The ski lifts will be open by the end of next week.


I remember going to that post-modern art museum and I remember walking outside of it into the dark, cool night. I remember being surrounded by other people, maybe yellow lines on the black street, maybe crossing the road to access a lit passageway toward the subway. What I cannot remember is where I was, who I was with, or where we were going.


In that D.C. apartment we did shots of vodka and washed them down with diet red bull, disgusting, then I think maybe we took a cab to a burlesque show and I really loved it and also I felt uncomfortable the whole time, albeit not because of the burlesque.


Walking alone in D.C. I went to art museums, sat on windy benches atop professional buildings, gazed down on the river, walked long through the state park, stood tall in front of those charging dogs, had my ass grabbed, was chased while shouting NO, got called at and harassed on a daily basis, disappeared into that crowd of drummers drumming and acrobaters acrobating, hopped on rental bikes and pedaled all over, walked the rich streets of Georgetown, kissed him by that koi pond or rather he kissed me and I said I didn't think he should, reconnected with high school friends, sang in the shower, sang in my bedroom, covered my bedroom walls with pencil drawings, lived on a mattress on the floor, had sex in my room and then in his room, had sex in the basement bedroom, had sex after climbing up the fire escape and shimmying through the bathroom window, crashed a party in a skintight leopard costume, told him I didn't respect him as much and probably never would, ate a lot of falafel, had my boots on, lent that crying young man on the sidewalk my cell phone and gave him a great big hug, handed out sandwiches, granola bars, money to all the homeless people I met, sat in that literary cafe and dreamt, read my writing out loud to my writing group, read my writing out loud at poetry readings, brought him along to a poetry reading, went to the aerospace museum, ate hot dogs, rode the bus to choir practice, committed to memory that image of him sitting on the bench amidst the greenery and the concrete and the graffitied skate park and the water. I auditioned for a choir and I was one of only a handful picked. I wrote and wrote and read it to other people. I walked and walked and walked all over the city and even though it gave me many reasons to be I was not afraid.


You're allowed to have a little fun.



There is still hope left in this world. When did I start being so serious all the time?