Poetry, Writing

Washing the Value off of Dirty Money

On hands and knees my wrists move
with the rhythm of my labored breathing,
scrubbing these floors and hoping
that working just hard enough
can wash away the sins of this system
we didn’t ask to be a part of,
dreaming of some restitution
for all the stolen youth,
praying for some peace of mind
in the heads of all the weary
young and hopeless,
imaging a resistance
to the self-indulgent hands reaching into
our futures,
because shame on them
for breaking our backs
with the burden of their debts and desires.

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Poetry, Writing

Obituary for a Brooklyn Romance

Brooklyn was cold when we met,026
and I was young.
We smoked pot on that Friday night,
(my first time)
and you and I were too high it onto make the L-train,
Manhattan bound.
But I was stoned from the beginning,
loving you and loving the lights,
and in those moments I thought,
“this must be what it feels like to live.”
I was in love!
Fresh, young, and enchanted
as we walked through the movie scenes,
you know,
the ones that shaped our world views,
the ones on which we fashioned ourselves?
That was us in those movies,
or at least two people doing what we did,
eating blueberry pancakes on a Sunday morning
in some Central Park café.
You were the love I’d never felt before,
the ode I had yet to write,
the fresh-picked flowers I’d smelled for the first time.
Thank you,
for walking through a blizzard to bring me pizza.
Thank you,
for questioning my self-defeating notions
about all the things I thought I could never do.
We cried when the intercom at the airport
said that I had to board the plane that would fly
across the country and out of your embrace,
and at that moment,
my heart understood what it felt like
to lose someone it loved.
It mourned the mornings we would wake up,
sleepy-eyed and tangled,
and it mourned hearing you yell at me,
for god-knows-what.
It mourned 6:30 p.m.,
when I would walk across Manhattan
just to walk back home with you from work.
I mourned you.
I loved you extraordinarily.
And in fact, I still wonder
if you love mint chocolate-chip ice cream
as much as you did.

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a finite beauty;
youth is giving way.
the diaphanous spirit
does not remain
naive, tender, passionate.
Time erases the smiles
and etches a crease between the brow.
The exhilarating twinkle in the unbeknown eye
is now gone.

Photographs, Poetry, Writing

Annica

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