brooklyn

i remember the sweat--it was cold. february. brooklyn. the sun set over the city and you pointed out the projects where jay z lived. the train was suspended, and we got off. i was afraid i'd fall through, just a passing fear, a fleeting moment of insecure footing.
we walked. we asked a man where the street was, and we walked. the sun set quickly, and we waited in the cold outside john bosch's house. a crowd was gathering.

inside, we waited for hours, and finally, everything was alive.

he broke my heart playing wednesday night drinkball. he broke my heart playing 2,400,000. i screamed and cried and laughed and screeched. i wanted the crowd to tear me apart, i wanted to music to blast my head to pieces, i wanted to be the dirt and the beer and the sweat on the ground. i wanted to be the remains of an experience, of a moment of truth, i wanted to be the evidence. i wanted to be swept away, to be wiped clean, to disappear.

and he broke my heart when he sang. the beautiful torn voice, the vibrations in his howl. i wanted to give myself to him, to give myself to anyone for that one moment of beauty--richard dalloway with flowers in the doorway for clarissa--and like richard i failed, i left, and he lifted my soul for the moment, but i could never rise that high again.

i couldn't connect with a single person, my heart couldn't tear and open the way it did that night.