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Monday, January 15, 2007


Overwhelmed with the sudden shift in my lifestyle, I used to sit and smoke in the window of our tiny Brooklyn sub-lease apartment, in the hottest summer NYC had had in years, it seemed.

August 29, 2005

I smoke a
solitary cigarette
by a
small window,
Waiting for the
inevitable headrush
and thinking too many thoughts to jot down.
The world slows down for a
and a book slips off my lap.
The city is quieted by my c o n c e n t r a t ed inhalations.
It is a silence that eludes me to the point that I crave it, need it to slow my
and a restlessness that won’t quit, that demands attention in a way I can’t


A fly victoriously enters from outside—
I know he, too, will nag me.
The room spins slightly and a dull ache throbs in my head.
A drop of sweat appears on my lip and I
wipe it away with one finger, but it is just another
futile action in this new routine of stagnant living.
I can’t chainsmoke my fulfillment.
I can’t even name it.
It is blurred at the edges by
this noise,
this crush of bodies,
this oppressive heat.
Distractions are welcome, but the
red flags of my psyche keep flaring up.
I pad back to my room to seek more remedies to keep my fears at bay.
It is not
Just Survival.

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