At the Moon

I sit in the quiet of my room, I sit in the corner, I sit in the chair, the green chair with the stains, the stains from food and chips and dip and cum and love and makeup...
I sit in the chair and I smell the scents of dorm, I smell Ramen and sweat and shit and puke and booze and the girls’ rooms always smell much better than the boys because they have a sense of decency because it’s engrained and because society says they should, but I,
I disagree because I hate convention and I hate conformity and I hate Jessica Simpson when I see her on TV I want to throw something at her, out the window, at a wall, anywhere that would cause damage because she’s so stupid, she’s blonde and giggly and everything that is wrong with popular culture today and tomorrow and yesterday...
yesterday I walked along Broad Street at 1.30 in the morning and there was no traffic, I walked in the middle of the street, past Theta Chi, past DU, past Gamma Phi and the dark house that was once KDR, towards the empty intersection with its glowing lights,
I could never do this at home, in the city, New York City where I was born and raised and lived and loved and cried for eighteen years, it’s the city that Ginsburg writes of, the city Woody Allen and Billy Crystal love, the city of Broadway and Chinese food and bagels and pizza, the food I love and grew up with, my friend asked me two nights ago, on a trip to Bloomsburg, PA, if I only liked my bagels better because they were the ones I grew up with, as if my preference had nothing to do with quality but only familiarity, familiarity is a comfort, and food is a comfort but I do not see the connection in my friend’s mind,
but then again I make illogical connections all the time, I blame it on my undiagnosed ADD, I blame it on sugar, I blame it on caffeine I did not consume, I blame it on exhaustion, I blame it on the full moon, taunting me with its cratered surface, like the pockmarked face of an acne free adult
and I see a wolf, arching backwards and pointing towards the moon, baying at it, it’s silhouette creating the cliché that is used to adorn the closing credits or Dick Wolfe’s shows, the forty-one and a half variations on Law and Order that are different enough to be considered separate shows except for the fact that they are punctuated by the same white type designating time and place with the familiar two notes of music
the music that plays in my head while I try to sleep but find that I can’t because of the moon’s beams penetrating the old window shade in my room, the room I’ve had since I was born into this world, a screaming, bloody mess.
And I want to howl at that moon, at its quiet silvery form in the sky above my head and I will break the quiet of the moon and my room with the shade and corner and chair.