April 29, 2014 — Brunch In The Village — A Journal Excerpt

While the money drains from my pockets like a busted water main I can’t help but wonder—has our existence really boiled down to name badges and paychecks, fedora’s and chino’s, tax breaks and debt? It’s no wonder the streets are filled with broken bodies.

It’s no wonder the idea of the “weekend” has begun to depress me. This invisible structure, unspoken, yet accepted continues to devour our living, chewing us like cud, and then spitting us out to white sheets where we can’t even reach the bedpan without assistance.

A weekend ago I was eating brunch in The Village, drinking a Bloody Mary, eating eggs Benedict, and writing a letter to a friend when I noticed two men noticing me. They asked if I was a writer—each in their 50’s debating women over Mimosa’s—to which I told them I was just going through the motions of my 20’s. They both smiled, shared a laugh of remembrance, and went back to arguing. If I was smart I’d play the game, perhaps try to sell myself even. One day I thought, but for now, I’m an artist stuck in his artist ways, trying his best not to care that he can’t afford the eggs, the rent, or brunch in The Village for that matter.

Everyone I know’s the titles

Everyone I know’s the titles

They just don’t read the words

Writing’s an endless cycle

I start to feel the burn

Sunlight it is healing

Too much can make it worse

Moonlight is revealing

My answer’s questioned first

But who am I to argue

The writing’s on the wall

No pages left to sift through

Like dominoes they fall

Everyone I know’s the titles

They just don’t read the words

This feeling’s infantile

I know not which is worse