Juan Tituana, Marianne Szlyk, and NYC! (part 1)

On Gray Thursdays Chinatown lights glow like hard candies red green purple yellow white against the meringue of fog. The colors sting in February, not quite March, when the last ice and snow and wrappers crunch like the sugar coating on a cheap spice drop. The colors coat the tongue in sweater-weather May, almost June, when humid air congeals like the bubble tea that hides between cubes of not-yet melted ice on gray Thursdays in Brooklyn’s Chinatown. [Originally published in A Touch of Saccharine (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2014).] Kew Gardens, NY The Tetris blocks are falling faster and faster as the balalaikas shreik through the laptop speakers. The shapes the blocks make never fit together. They pile up until they remind her of buildings that hide the sun on Queens Boulevard. But the piles of blocks hide the night, the orange sky without stars, the thump of her upstairs neighbor riding above her head faster and faster. The game ends, but the balalaikas still race through her veins like the black coffee she buys every morning on Queens Boulevard after the nights she cannot sleep because her neighbor rides. [Originally published in Insert Coin Here (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013).] Listening to Robert Glasper’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” The last song escapes your laptop and rises just above your head. A black man’s voice fuzzes, then disappears around the brilliant corners. With a flick of a switch, the drum crisps. The voice reappears. Glasper remembers Nirvana’s song. You don’t. Other music blasted out of the clothing stores on Jamaica Ave. in Queens. The hoop-earring girls in neon leggings and high-tops and lemon raspberry perfume danced down the sidewalks to “Gypsy Woman (She’s Homeless).” They were singing along with her la da dee la dah dah. Dressed for success at your temp job, you wanted  to sing and dance with them. Dressed to grade papers, you dance now. [Originally published in Of/with.] Tropical Fantasy on the J-Train While Bridie’s husband chatted up everyone else in English, Spanglish, and French, she sipped from a bottle of Tropical Fantasy, its blue acid fizz bitter, sweet, and cheap. Her husband kept up his brogue; she imagined losing hers. She wondered what it was like to live alone above the bodega so close to the subway, the all-night screech and rumble, the eyes of passengers upon her. Wrapping herself in the blanket of her husband’s words, she shuddered. She could not live alone, even in a daydream. [Originally published in Literature Today.] The Song is Blue Ketchup On Sunday in Tompkins Square Park only the hopelessly uncool wear all black. A man in a purple kilt walks a white Pomeranian with matching streaks. You sip kale juice. The back-up singers onstage wear nuns’ habits. They swing their oversize Mardi Gras bead rosaries in time to the ska beat. Someone’s father in a fedora dances and plays trombone. I sip beet juice. Children’s music plays in the distance. The song is blue ketchup on chicken nuggets. The song is sneaky sips of orange soda. The song is not you. The song is blue ketchup. The air is heavy with warm earth and asphalt. You sip beet juice. A nun in navy blue polyester opens up her matching umbrella. I sip kale juice. Spring rain will start up again soon. [Originally published in Aberration Labyrinth.] At the Almost-Empty Vegetarian Café  Prewar buildings cast long shadows on this October street, blacking out yellow and orange leaves, the brilliant sky, and her memories of marriage outside this city. The clunk, whir, and grind of a carrot juicer overwhelms the radio tuned to avoid the silly love songs of American Top 40. She wonders how long these shadows and sounds will continue. Outside shadows melt into dusk the color of soy sauce and miso. The man she intended to marry shepherds his children into their building, the Cliff Dwelling over the river. He will never stop here. The man she did marry flies into this city tonight with his new wife, his new Linda. He will never stop here. Only the young man nursing his tea, nursing his poetry, living on half-price produce at home, stops here. Looking out to the almost-empty dining room, she wonders how long all of this can go on. [Originally published in The Four Seasons (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2015).] I hope that you enjoy my words and Juan Tituana's beautiful images!  There will be more soon.  In the meantime, here is some music for you. Let's start with a video of the Warren Wolf Quintet at Dizzy's Club Coca Cola: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dkYFPd5OG38 Here the Emmet Cohen Trio plays Thelonious Monk's "Off Minor":  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUN7L9Z_n1Q The Robert Glasper Trio with Bilal performs "Double Black" at the Village Vanguard: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hh8o0LeaN5A I'll finish with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers at Sweet Basil in 1985: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZ6arNv9opA