Day 2
Waking up in Brooklyn...

I pinch myself to see if you really exist.
Same corner looks at me from my window. I am 4 hours of sleep operating excitement. I am text reminders on Mo's phone, because "Tom's Diner gets busy quick."
Duh-ta Duh-ta Duh-ta Duh-ta...
Mo is on my phone sounding un-human assuring she will rise. Exhaustion on her lips but will meet me on Atlantic again.
I am crossing the street, on the correct subway, heading the right direction. I am iPod in my right ear, left ear listening to hearts beat, eyes fixed on signs... you look the same no matter the time of day.
To the man directing people onto the shuttle, was that grunt at me supposed to be appealing? Animal, I am not interested in your breed.
I am ear to phone with Ken Arkind's voice on the other end of a name that isn't who I called. I am walking away from Atlantic, following instructions, scooped to close door on my right side. There is a younger face that makes me miss my niece. Same age, but not afraid to speak first.
To the daughter of Browne, you are one of the most beautiful voices I have ever seen.
Instantly I am small like her, engaged in conversation.
We are walking...
Waiting in short lines.
To Tom's Diner, you remind me of the Breakfast Klub in Houston, TX. Thank you.
"I am sitting
In the morning
At the diner
On the corner."
Eating goodness, belly full of homemade butter, spinach egg & cheese omelet, and toast. A piece of lemon turkey sausage is teasing my taste buds.
To Mo, you wrong for that!
To Ken Arkind, thank you for beat boxing and allowing me to break in.
We're walking.
To the people who put unwanted items on the street, you should write down its memories before its gone.
To the bookstore that smells like words and dusty truth, you have good things.
I bought a few.
We are walking...
Picking up to drop off close to Jay St.
To Jay-Z, they are proud of you. Your billboard is brilliant. Oh! And you KILLED when you came to Austin last year. Thank you for never disappointing me.
To the stores downtown, I expect VANS when I return.
To Juniors, you will be worth it later tonight.
We are moving...
Pavement holds up signs that remind us not to honk or a $350 fine will be given. And I am amazed at the urge fingers have to press down.
To the woman who looks familiar, I will ask you later if you are the voice I remember.
To the performance by Mahogany L. Browne and Keomi Tarver, ya'll ish was DOPE! And I came with these people...
We are walking...
Dominican Restaurant on the corner. Ajillo y arroz blanco.
Survival tip #2: You have to know Spanish to live here. In case you missed it, Survival tip #1 was, you have to have a smart phone because you will need to know your way lol.
And I will ask the woman with beautiful coffee skin if she is the voice I remember and she will say yes, LET"S GO!
To Keomi, thank you for being easy to be around, for agreeing with me about doing the Dougie to anything!
To the laughter and aggression wrapped around the brim of our margarita glasses, I do not want to leave.
To the interaction between mother and daughter, you confirmed I should write this "one" poem and that my moma is a good mother.
We are moving the Sun down.
We are back in traffic that moves faster than Austins.
I am Kodak thoughts in recent flashbacks to Mo's random freestyle and her saying, "I got tattoos... Yea they called STRETCH MARKS SON! ALL DAY SON!! WHAT!!
LMAO
In no particular order...
We are subway with no signal. Robotic in the way she knows six months and still. We are small door that can lead to anywhere. At this time I am speaking quietly to myself and I admire small women who are doing big things. I am happy to be a piece of the furniture moving slightly like breath. And they continue like an episode of "Girl Friends" - Brooklyn style.
Up.
We are walking like a run.
Laced blisters, sore on my feet. But its Brooklyn so I gotta go hard.
Survival tip #3, you have to have comfortable shoes to live here!
To the Baby Cat in the subway darkness... you scare me, shockingly you are a rat.
To the mother and daughter on the shuttle, you remind me of this "one" poem I can't wait to write.
To the Brooklyn museum, how long have you been displaying my heart? Thank you for showing me that black women can be pin-ups too.
To the DJ spinning "that's my jam" for everyone dancing like no one is watching, you are FUN!
To Brooklyn's windchill, why can't you stay nice!? Why must you be bipolar in the way you blow me to tears.
There are no taxis' that stop for black girls no matter how cute we are. And she, happens to be my bestie right now. My list is short, but I've decided to add her to it, call her forever. How'd I love so quick.
We are waving arms to my desperate disbelief one yellow taxi stops.
I am 25th and 4th Ave.
I am exhausted in a real way.
From the back of my neck, to the twinge in my pinky toe, to the back of my back, front forehead, hair sweat, I am exhausted in a real way.
Change clothes... and go to bed! lol With fork into this cheesecake. I am happy to once have had cherries red like my BMW, Crimson on my lips I am torn. Not ready to go home but I have not enough here to stay. And they are calling for me to come back. Never missing a good thing until I was gone. They don't appreciate me like I need them too. And I tell myself it's okay. I am still a good thing.
SO small to this city no matter how many shoes I have. And those are packed too.
I do not think about changing. I gotta smell of Brooklyn on my shirt so I sleep in it.
Just sleeping to the sound of Brooklyn is still awake.