I’m enabled to live the life of a reclusive, Nietzschean aesthetic priest by the plethora of delivery service options that are offered in my well-heeled Manhattan neighborhood.

The delivery men are my barometers of the outside world. I can smell the heat and humidity of the street radiating from them as they catch their breath after running up the four flights of stairs. Sometimes the polyurethane coating of their windbreakers is covered with black beads of rain.

The short Guatemalan from the diner on the corner is one of my faves. He is as tall as he is wide, with a perfect, pencil-thin moustache above his top lip. How are you, my princess, he always asks, smiling a smile that seems too carefree for someone who has to make ends meet by delivering greasy food to someone like me—i smile back as I let him hook the handles of the plastic bag around my wrist. He’s sweating. His sneakers are worn out. Mine are brand new. The bright green soles have only encountered carpet and faker linoeuleum tiled floors.

Outside there’s always something to prove. It’s cat and mouse, cop and robber, David and Goliath, hunter and prey. The constant exchange wears me down. The give and take that Billy Joel sings about in “New York State of Mind”. It’s a very real, vibrant thing—an energy that zips up and down the grid. I become too invested in it—the cause and effect down there on the sidewalks has a desperation to it that pulls me in, capturing my attention the way following the ball captures my attention in tennis or ping pong or pinball.

I love people but when I’m caught in the depths of the crowd I feel myself being whittled down to nothing.

Im rockin the house on some untouchable stylez, like a ghost

Im crackin open the seed nut center of some ferreal loneliness and layin it out for all to see like a drunken uterus.

(im yr favorite horse)

photographs from a previous lifetime

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