autumnal body OR what version is this.

No pesticides have been added. Nor any corn syrup or sugars not already churning within the veins of this body. No dyes. Minimal dyes. Nothing had been surgically enhanced or altered. (Thoughts of doing so do not count.)

This body is organic.

Autumn has arrived and the air settles onto skin like red, orange and off-green kisses falling from bark to body. This season represents change of color, cooler inhalations, semi-hibernation prep. Humans surround me in scarves and boots, some already wearing jackets.

This body is already feeling the climate shift. Throat is sour and limbs are like old doors, creaking. Energy feels powdered, like dust. It blows off of me too easily. I need to prepare better for this.

I gargle salt water and coffee. Drink ginger tea and red wine. Eat high antioxidant foods like blueberries and chocolate cake.


Recently, a stranger on the subway asked me where I was from. I answered: My mother’s womb.

He nodded and turned away, repeating my answer. I think he may have been expecting me to name a state, city or borough. Perhaps I just don’t like to give people want they really want.


I was walking to the train and thought: What would I have looked like if I were born/raised as a boy?

Then, I wondered if I’d look different if I were born a mother or decided to become someone whose job fattened my bank account and I no longer worried about the rising cost of capers and peanut butter.

Would I look different if I were a wife or husband or world traveler?

What version was I supposed to be and am I doing this right?


My first thought in the morning is coffee. 


My next thought is: what if the words never arrive today.

Then, I have a cup of coffee, digest the caffeine and allow it to clear up the bloat in my throat and begin to unravel.


the arrival of autumn: a cinematic romance

Cue the music. Send in the woman wearing lips as though they were born out of a Kandinsky. Mouth painted in hue of red that makes blood blush. What’s my line? asks the moon. It exists wearing a sweater vest and sheath of wool but from down here all that can be seen is its blinding gaze.

In New York City, everything is romantic. Even the scent of urine. Because when a beautiful woman is against you, the nose smells only blues and jazz on her breath. The cement is covered in a carpet of crushed leaves. We make music with each step. And there is nothing wrong with this air no longer sweating against us. When the body shivers, it reminds us how moved we can get.

Doesn’t this feel like a Woody Allen film? I will stutter my tongue down my throat; you will write poems out of intimate disasters like finely tuned recipes. All of this can exist on a couch somewhere during overpriced analysis session with accented human reminding you that life is meant to feel dog-eared– battered but emphasized.

We will eat differently now because of allergies and dietary restrictions, but here in New York City, everything can be a substitute for the real thing. However. Beauty will always exist as its truest form when the moon stretches and the light is just right to notice. To notice. All the red in this world.