The door on your left
leaves you in Brooklyn, on the plaza
At the Barclay's Center.
(You remember vowing never to call it that.
You grew up here. It's the Atlantic Center. Fuck you.)
Thursday morning, and you thought, why not go to Bikram?
(You're not working Thursday, Friday or Sunday this week.
You've somehow never had the kind of jobs your friends have, with regular hours,
Which frightens your parents and leads to hobbies.)
The tired mother, the trio of wisecracking hasidic boys,
The dude who kind of looks like Christian Slater in Heathers,
these people are your home, and always have been.
You contain multitudes, something something. It's early.
Christian Slater looks at you one nanosecond past ambiguity.
You nod. He nods. You are two dudes nodding on a Thursday.
You're twenty seven, and you're never not looking for sex-
and there it is, before you've even gotten to yoga.
You are in a dark hall with many doors,
even now, in the glare of January sunlight.
Or maybe you were thinking about him anyway-
You stop in the comic book shop on Bergen, and you don't have time
trills in his voice,
Unbidden. Sometimes you hear it when you talk about the future,
you're too smart to be wasting your life, or
let's go to New Orleans! New Orleans is awesome!
Unpredictable in tone or meaning. You cannot chart the times when it arrives.
You know because you've tried, like a good scientist,
figuring the flesh with your fingers,
where the catches are,
where to put the shocks.
Read hellblazer in the comic shop
Go to Yoga