Howl

New York cruel and generous with beauty, walloping us with overabundance.

Right now a woman I love at a bar on 11th St. getting walloped with song.

Defending myself against the overabundance again today I don't leave the apartment; I grade papers, give a (half-assed) lecture, watch some TV. Read about "relationship saboteurs" – taking consolation in the news that other people, including people I love or have loved, take a sledgehammer to their happiness with as much diligence as I do, as I have.

Phone taunting me with silence yet emanating the promise that at any moment someone inside it will ask, "Eric, are you alright?"

Like so much else once a source of happiness now a source of cruelty.

So no walloping music, for a minute. No beauty of any kind. After all, beauty demands to be shared, however cruelly.

Sure, I imagine venturing out again, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, to not be desolated by generosity. As I have desolated a few souls over the course of my life with a gesture, a calling out, openhandedness, trembling, rage.

I don't really believe in writing like this. Maybe that's why I should do it – am doing it. Tomorrow a picture of Central Park at night, Valentine's Day Eve, a long walk, a kiss, laughter. A photograph, big dumb skyscraper lights behind us in the distance seen through winterstripped trees, metaphors of hope.

But today this old brownstone is well built; the storm windows are double-paned; I'm high above the street. This howl, like so many others echoing around this town every day, won't startle – distress – frighten – concern – anyone. An indifference I've earned. A starting point, telling me the truth about myself and sending me back out into the shared Harlem night.