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Harlem
who am i
no one loves me
​
not even the Colombian boy
who bags my groceries
behind the bodega’s counter
I don’t think I’ll hear much from Neal this month
put his pen down for good
to chase the girls of Denver
who aren’t Carolyn (or me)
Jack and W.B. too busy to visit
consumed with words drugs alcohol
making love to the typewriter
in Paterson & Tangier
​
I should be consumed with words
but I can barely bring myself
to peel the skin
off the oranges
I bought last week
so I just eat them
skin & all
let the juices stain
my boxers
as I lay in bed
staring out onto 151st street
until it gets dark
​
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