Reading it back is difficult, because I'm not sure how I should be reading it-- I really need to open up and learn to write on a greater tonality scale. Somehow it's become drama drama drama. -- The urge to write something beautiful ... displaced aspirations.

Dorothy of Harlem

blogging to keep my xanga-- not that i've been great about blogging on the others-- On the 1 has been put on the backburner-- there is just so much to to.

The heat has finally broken and the sever thunderstorms have started. My fan burst out of my window, and the door slammed when my room became a wind-tunnel.

I am the Dorothy of Harlem.

Funny how I started this as a Freshman in college and basically abandoned it, writing again as an adult living in Harlem in my first Media job. I never thought it would pan out this way. The way it is and the way I imagined it are both good, I’m not sure which one is better.

Citronella

The boy on the subway smells like citronella. The epitome of backyard suburbia, tangled in the pores of this teenage boy mid-October surrounded by the metal and plastic of the one train. He smells of grass and summer and that strange old picnic table outside the kitchen window.  He’s yellow mesh disappointment that never lasts as long as you expect.

I want to write and finish something, not just one piece of less that 750 words-

For someone to read them, without me shoving it in their face,

Without prompting

To be as happy as Jim and Pam, even though they are fictional.

Sometimes I’m jealous of her;

Like when the one you loved finds someone else,

and you’re       happy for      them

but you can’t lift yourself up inside, because you’re not the one they needed.

It’s a dark fog hanging in your torso, full of happy air.

I wish:

I knew the answer to my question

That the beautiful boy would be on now, and I could talk to him about prose

and his poems.

That the sudden feeling of missing another- hadn’t manifested itself;

                                                            timing

It’s probably the familiarity needed in the time after death, the confusion and        other       life               stresses

Don’t make                 decisions now

Don’t give up on                                 logic

Don’t think / this is a poem.