May Day hit me with a bang: snuggling into my sheets while snoozing I checked my email on my smartphone, thinking perhaps it was from the boss. It was from my landlord notifying me I had 30 days, more or less, to leave my apartment.
31 days later I am packing up the last three years of my life. I originally moved in with my brother and a gay Indian. I was scared, confused, not sure what my plan was as I was still adjusting to a life not in school and stuck in the tough economy.
Later, my roommates changed but I stayed. Some furniture differed but my small room was always growing with pictures and words sprawled on my walls. The growing art became my sanctuary, my comfort.
Even my apartment acquired a nickname, monikered the "party house." Despite my plethora of friends from the steakhouse I was always lonely. Felt different. Apart from the typical Hoboken breed.
Even my apartment acquired a nickname, monikered the "party house." Despite my plethora of friends from the steakhouse I was always lonely. Felt different. Apart from the typical Hoboken breed.
As I leave Hoboken and head to Brooklyn I worry. Did I accomplish what I wanted? Did I make my mark?
Now, in Brooklyn, my mind questions why I left all my friends behind. And the bubble of 'boken where I knew the best places to eat, the cheap bars... Am I too Jersey for Brooklyn? Not bohemian enough to dub myself a writer, an artist?
Added to my worries, I have left the magazine I have written for the last ten months. Not knowing where my next paycheck will come from I did something I have not turned to in four years. I wrote a poem.
Plagiarize This
A blankness was
felt when a man accused
me of faking it--
my writing.
A numbing anger
washed over me,
hearing, I’m a Sham. A Fake.
Call me a slut. A bitch.
Anything else.
My greatest fear called out.
A lucid hurt
enveloped my heart,
labeled a Phony. A Copier.
But what’s to come of pages
sprawled with my guts--
a Trademark?
(June 2012)
