When the light comes in
and the day breaks after a long night,
there is this entire justification of being wild enough
to dance in the City and to enjoy
the pleasant mayhems of being young
and crazy.
This was us,
once . . .
Ah, I miss the aftermaths of long nights
and the sunrise that came the next morning.
I miss the calm after the craziness
or the moments of reflection
that came after the crowd had vanished
and all that was left, was me
and my thoughts or my ideas of what took place
from the night before.
I can say, however,
there were times when I would wonder
if I would ever find my way,
which is not to say that I was lost
as much as I was hoping that somehow,
my purpose would come to light
and my reasons for being would manifest in such a way
that all would be clear
and I would recognize myself in the mirror
and be satisfied to understand that yes,
time is on my side,
and I am far better off than I gave myself credit for.
It is strange, of course,
to look back and think about the ideas
that seemed so intense at the time.
Today, those concerns are like the concerns
of a toddler to me.
It is odd to me to think of how I looked
or how I acted or dressed,
and then, every so often,
some kind of memories arise,
and I see who I was—and then I shake my head
and ask myself, “What the hell was I thinking?”
I have always been this way,
which is not a bad thing to say;
however, when I explain that I have always been this way,
I mean that I have always been a seeker
or a man in search of an answer
or looking to find “my thing”
as if there was something missing
or some misdiagnosed or misplaced item
that was needed yet,
I was absent in a way and somehow,
I was present enough to understand
the world had someone in store for me.
I would look in the mirror and notice the look in my eyes
or notice my face
which was expressive to me and perhaps invisible to others.
But . . .
I could see inside myself, or deeper into my soul,
and I knew that I was always hoping
that somebody, somewhere, or somehow,
there’s an answer out there,
or a solution to my dilemma
just waiting for me.
I remember my nights Downtown near Alphabet City,
or the dinners at Stingy Lulu’s where the drag queens
worked the tables and served the food;
or the nights on St Mark’s
or the times down by Astor Place, after a hair cut,
and me, I was doing my best
to create a look for myself.
Better yet, I was trying to create a façade
or build at least a semblance
of some kind of modern life to which,
I would be more than just attractive.
If I tried, maybe I could be wanted or desired
and in the face of my own shyness,
while trying to manifest some kind of outward appearance
or to act as if
and be so bold or “in your face,”
or at least to build myself, to some degree;
I was trying to form
an approximation of a so-called life
or to be like some James Dean character,
or to fit the script
of someone cool, dark
or mysterious
(and sexy)
There were times after the crowd went away
and the sunrise was my new best friend.
You remember the story . . . don’t you?
Or should I remind you?
I was sitting on the trunk of my car in a driveway,
mid-summer, and there was a jogger
who ran passed when the lawn-sprinklers came on.
I hated him, for some reason.
This was a caption of the suburban life around me,
which took on a holy attitude of a Sunday morning appeal.
The town was quiet and the mayhem in my head
was left behind somewhere
at a place where my dance took hold
and remained inside the doorway
or a club called Live Psychic on East 86th
I saw him,
or the man jogging passed was my enemy—and I never knew why.
I saw this man as a representation of age
or the settled-down version of a life, less-desired.
He smiled at me as he ran passed; as if to relive his youth
or act as he too had those long nights out.
His white socks were up high, to a little below his knee.
His shorts were shorter than they needed to be
and his belly jiggled a little bit inside of his tank top,
or should I say, he looked like a despised version
of a man in an intendedly orchestrated outfit,
middle-aged,
and sold-out to a life of a typical household
and held to a standard of middle-income America.
I never wanted to be like him.
I never wanted to be so uniformed or so indoctrinated
to a look or to a style.
I never wanted to lose my lust for the night
or to give way to a supposed way of living
I always wanted to be crazy.
And now?
Well, I am rounding the corner and
a few months shy of my 52nd year of life.
This means I have revolved around the sun 52 times
in a yearly fashion, yet although I am older,
and life has left an indentation,
my body is fit for my age
and I am certainly not the worse for wear.
However, inside, I still have that tiny bit of defiance.
I still want to go and run and rage and to dance
and to see the sunrise, to which
to this date and regardless of the hour I lay my head
or finally rest; I have always been an early riser,
just to see the sun come up.
It’s symbolic to me
just like you are.
Take today, for example.
The sun was coming up from the east,
of course, because this is the usual tide.
My car was driving west.
I drove over the 59th Street Bridge
and noticed the changing landscape of my City,
which never sleeps—
just like me.
I am not young by any means but inside,
my little rebel is still alive,
and my need to let my hair fly in the wind
and feel the sun on my face is still going strong.
I still want to see the full moon over my City.
I still want to dance.
I still want to break the dawn and yes,
I still want to have that moment of reflection
before I finally collapse and rest to sleep.
I do not need the crowds anymore.
I outgrew that shit a long time ago.
I could use a good outfit though
and the feeling of how I’d lean against the wall,
trying hard to make (you) my girl look my way
just to know that no matter how old I am
or how much I age,
I still got it,
and she?
Well, if she allows me, she can “get it”
if she wants it.
She can have me
at her say so.
All of me . . .
And while I remind you
that age has stepped in to do its trick,
I might not be as fast or as electrifying as I was
when I was younger. But at the same time,
my age has shown me a few tricks,
which is to take my time, take it slow,
or increase the momentum
and to pace myself because . . .
if I have learned anything about love
or the art of love making,
I have learned that there is no drug
with a high quite like the magic of a kiss,
or the feel of her palm in my hand,
or my palm on her thigh.
This is the best type of addiction
(if you ask me).
Hey, just out of curiosity,
do you like to feel the gentleness of fingertips
softly grazing the surface of your skin, like say
up and down the sides of your body?
I could do this for hours.
In fact, I can do a lot of things for hours, and,
as a matter of fact, I have learned one great thing in my life
which is that sometimes the clock moves too slow
and sometimes, the clock moves too quickly—so,
act accordingly and savor the flavor
of every desirable moment.
Now, as I prepare to close:
Life is too short to waste with regrets.
Rebuild or repent or reclaim your life,
and find your path, find your hopes,
build your desires, and whenever possible,
find the love of your life
and grab them for a slow dance,
or find a song that suits you both,
and let this be a song
that best defines your love.
Oh, and Roberta Flack,
I have to thank you again . . .
You were right when you came up with the song,
“Just When I Needed You”
and it’s at the end of this song,
which always touched my heart,
and dare I risk my manhood
by admitting to such a soft or vulnerable emotion—still,
it is true, that somehow, true love calls out.
But we have to listen and be mindful
when something seems like it’s hard or failing.
We have to work for the dream
or counteract the imbalance,
or risk the consequences
of losing the most valuable high in the world . . .
it’s called love
“Somebody sent me you when I,
Somebody somewhere heard me cry,
Somebody gave me you when I
(gave me what I needed),
I needed you”
And to you, Roberta
I was a kid when I heard this song.
I’m not a kid anymore,
or at least not by age.
At the same time,
the song still has meaning to me
And one night, when the tides come
in and the moon is full,
I plan to be where I dreamed,
preferably somewhere down beneath the Miami moon,
and dancing closely, tightly,
and swaying with my love
and thinking this whole time,
“I needed you.”
It’s not so bad . . .
getting older.
It’s good to know who I am (now)
and where I came from
so this way, I can celebrate life
like a kid
and learn from my experience
to enjoy myself
like a man.
The Written Addiction 