The rhythm it has-

a steady drumming,

soft not too loud;

the smell it gives off,

particularly in the city.

The smell of wet concrete sidewalks and wet asphalt streets;

The sound that’s made when cars move over the rain falling on the streets,

the noticeable change in the everyday sounds of the city.

It’s not as noisy since there are fewer people out and about due to the rain-

those that might still be out there probably running errands can be more clearly heard,

their conversations with friends or on the phone.

The pitter-patter of their feet on the rain-soaked sidewalk and streets,

the giggles of folks jumping over puddles that sit and grow up against the curbs and elsewhere.

It all gives a comfy feeling when one listens and or hears the sounds of rain in the city entering apartments or urban houses.

One can also smell the wet soil and leaves that can be found in a city too

especially when living near a big Gotham park.

The big city, quieter and not so much in a hurry anymore

not so angry and angst since the rains came.

It’s like it has taken a day off in the middle of the week

A rainy day in the city...

It can rain today and yes we love the sun but here in the city,

we also love a good soaking to wash away the stress and put a calm into the hurried.

It's pretty seeing the street lights and car headlights shining off the rainwater fallen on the black street,

the cars are shiny wet.

There’s a glimmering that's layered on top of all things, and folks, here in the downtown area, and uptown,

down the avenues and major roads that lead out-of-town.

Let's not forget the steady sound of rainwater falling into the sewers, through the sewer grates.

A sound that easily enters an apartment with their window not far above the corner of their block.

Rainy days in the city is actually pretty you know,

It has a character all its own, and I love it.

New York City is where I’m from,

lets go Yankees, lets go Jets and Knicks.

And let me not forget my umbrella when going to the bank

on my way to the subway or hailing a cab.

I will not deny it - I knew it was love when she finished her fries, licked her fingers, and said, “My safe word is Miracle Whip - are you getting the check, or am I?”

Twenty years later, we snuggle and laugh as the outtakes of Melissa McCarthy and her husband roll during the credits of “Bridesmaids.” I’m not saying I’m into food sex all that much, but when I say, “Make me a sandwhich, please.” my wife sternly, gleefully, takes my hand - and she leads me to the bedroom, not the kitchen.

His face makes my stomach churn in disgust.

Eyes always searching for something he thinks he’s entitled to see.

Nose that seems to smell any weakness in me. Looking for a way in.

A mouth that constantly quirks into a greasy smile.

I give him an icy stare when he leans forward in his too-big-for-one-person seat. I can’t look away from him though, if I turn, I’ll see the window, and get sick. I’m deathly afraid of heights.

I still can’t believe that I was sent to do business with Jeffrey Epstien, instead of the person I really needed to see. Sent to Epstien instead of my actual business partner. Probably in hopes that my conditions on the deal would change after meeting this thing in a man’s body.

“So, how did a young lady like you end up in the business world?” He asks me this, but his eyes are not on my face. And I know it was a good idea this morning when I chose to wear my modest black suit top over my knee length black skirt.

I resist the impulse to snap my fingers and bring his attention back to my face.

“After college I found an internship, considering my expertise, I rose up fast.”

I keep my face calm even though on the inside I’m boiling as I see how his mind took my answer. He’s older than my father, and yet here he is with the mind of a teenager.

Makes me glad I took those pictures in his island house while waiting for the plane to ready.

“Would you like anything to drink?” He asks, standing and walking across the perfectly white carpet to his personal bar.

“No, thank you,” I grit out. Knowing his game.

When Epstein returns, he sits down next to me, on my couch. Not the too-big-for-one-person seat he was in before. He takes a sip out of his glass, sets it on the table, leans back on the couch, and not so subtly slides his arm across the back of the couch. I go to lean forward, but his hand is suddenly on my right shoulder, yanking me back. He starts carresing my shoulder, quickly moving his hand up to my neck, to slide his awful hand under my modest suit jacket. I push against him, but he’s slid over, closer. He’s stronger than I first thought. One arm pushing it’s way into my neckline from where it was slung over my back, the other on my chest, pushing me against the couch, and working on unbuttoning my front. His bodyguards, who had seemed like civilized human beings are suddenly facing away. Like they can’t see, or don’t guess anything’s wrong.

“Off me, Epstein! Or the deal’s off!” I slap his face, with the hand with the ring, I had coincidently turned around, so he was hit with the sharp stone.

I leap off the couch while he hugs his face, gasping. I straighten my suit and skirt, fixing the buttons. I stalk over to the intercom.

“Captain, how long before we land?”

“About thirty minutes miss. At the ten minute landing I will ask you to please put on your seat belt. In the meantime, there is minor turbulance ahead, it would be best for your safety if you had a seat.”

I scowl and start to walk back to the couches, as I sit on the couch opposite of Epstein, his security men suddenly seem to care to about safety. The safety of Epstein.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need that ring, and any others you are wearing.”

My eyes widen in alarm, but Epstein leans across the small coffee table to put a hand on my knee, “I don’t want to have to sue you for my bodily harm.”

He said it gently, like talking to a child. The guard nodded in agreeement. I shove my rings into the guard’s hand. He just walks away, and turns to where his back is to the couches. Epstein keeps his hand on my knee, gripping my leg with such possessiveness, I feel frozen. Vulnerable. He slides his hand slowly upward, underneathe my skirt. I pull backwards quickly, glaring at him. His hand still on my knee. He starts rubbing it, then, puts his hand on the underside of my knee, trying to work its way up again. I flick it off.

“Now, who has more to lose if this deal fails?” Epstein asks, calling on my bluff from earlier. I do.

“Are you threatening me, Epstein?”

Before Epstein can answer, the captains voice comes over the intercom, “Please buckle your seatbelts, the plane is preparing to land in ten minutes.”

Relief washes over me, soon, I’ll be off of this plane. And Epstein will be arrested on the ground. Though i couldn’t find any evidence of his other not-so-legal-dealings, I can do little girls around the world a favor. He’ll go to prison once again for his crimes of child trafficking, only this time, he won’t get out of jail time so easily.

Walking down the street became impossible without tripping and dropping my shopping bags, when I saw your face.

"Hello." You said it so casually as you walked, but then I tripped on my heels. You stopped walking, turned around, and picked up my heart from where it had rolled to your feet.

~ o n e

body of

emotions,

emanating

from the

core. tidal

waves as oceans,

oft’ eroding sandy

shores & riverbeds

of polished stones,

drunk on heaven’s

rain; pure vapors of

aged flesh & bones:

soul — 100 proof

of.....................pain

Too many connections

become baggage

weighing down the soul

until

it becomes necessary to

purge the excess.

My iron will

forges iron blades

to wield upon a tangled mess.

Surveying the land

finding what does not serve

Pruning down to blood and tears.

Snipping ties to my heart.

The scattered cords

rippling loose in the breeze

return to rest

or be reborn elsewhere.

But

my lightened heart

is all the better for it.

There comes a time when, after searching within yourself, you find nothing.

There are times when, despite the astounding possibilities available to you — and perhaps because of them — you find yourself empty.

No desires, no motivation, no inspiration.

I find myself here often. Itching to create masterful and cohesive art and writing, but falling short. Not knowing how, not convinced of my ability. Finding myself flailing, apathetic, tired.

Despite doing nothing, I am so tired.

I am overcome by contrasting desires to both become more because I am at present useless and wasting away, and become content because I have enough as it is.

And, in attempting to reconcile these opposing voices in my mind, I shut it down.

At present, I am neither motivated nor content.

I exist in a plane where there is nothing. My thoughts, usually colorful, diffuse into blacks and whites, and my eyes would rather stay shut than find the energy to open.

In this plane, I am weak.

But I am not worthless.

If you find yourself searching within yourself only to find there's nothing inside — if you find yourself blinking into that colorless void — then you are not alone.

You. I. We.

We despair, we mourn, we fade. In moments, we are lost and purposeless and lonely.

And we are allowed to be.

To those who suffer and are not heard,

To those who long for love they think they don't deserve,

To those who wish for sleep despite being awake,

To all those who live in a motionless, monochrome world:

You are no less than anyone else on this turbulent journey of life.

So many of us live with demons, even if they exist only within our own minds.

Invisible hardships do not make them unconquerable.

Feeling lonely does not make us alone.

Feeling helpless does not mean the end.

There is talent and life and beauty burning in every soul.

Your own, my own.

Be willing to find it.

Even if it takes all your strength, all your time, all your energy and willpower.

Find it.

You don't have to give up.

You are worth the time to be found.

And once you find yourself — it could take days, months, years — when you find yourself, take the time to find others.

Because sometimes they're standing there, motionless, searching inside themselves for something they can't find.

... when it will only get slept in again tonight?

The credo of the lazy. Using this logic, why do anything? Why bathe... why mow the grass... why inhale when it will only lead you to another exhalation?

It reminds me of the redneck who never put a roof on his house. He couldn’t do it while it was raining, and there was no need when it was sunny.

So, if you can’t think of another reason to do what needs doing, feel free to borrow my reason... do those little things because the old man might jerk a knot in your head if you don’t.

And because no one wants a house without a roof.