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Metropolitan Diary #1

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The G train wasn’t running today, not to Classen

At least. It reminded me of when we met — the 

Sunday night Circle nonexistent. I told you I 

a

Walked all the way from Paddington in the rain, nothing

But my cheap umbrella and Date Clothes, I wasn’t 

Dressing for warmth. I never told you I took a cab,

a

Flagged that yellow beacon as soon as I stepped out

The station. I was not going to arrive flushed, sky 

Soaked. I stalled in some shop to support my lie.

a

I never overcame the shame of paying for that

Cab, of just how badly I wanted to look good for you, not 

Even on that final westbound District, when I lay my head 

a

On your shoulder and realized, later, you must have

Seen my reflection close her eyes. You must’ve seen,

Then, all of it. I think you’d detest New York in

a

The summer but that night in January, your hair 

Soaked and so many layers hiding your yellow shirt,

You rose to greet me and just said not to worry. 

Raegan Allen

In My Dreams, All Men Leave Me For Superwomen

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The landscape is digital.	There are no pixels,
	but colors burn too brightly to be

	lucid. You are in costume, 
likely the hero.	I am also 
in costume, but in the way
that is obvious I am trying
to be something other 
	than myself. 

You are also a man,
clearly,		your zipper pulled
	down plastic abs
to your latex crotch.		
I want to stretch it
out.	

You only show interest
in me like someone rescuing
a lost puppy––		your eyes shift
anxiously, looking for an owner
then		slant down 
	at me,

	how sad. 	Maybe you will feed me,
but maybe I have rabies. A nice pat
on the head, 	good boy.

A blonde woman	flies
in, 	her breasts comically
purple. Your shoulders relax,
	which makes sense,
she could be a wife
dressed		with gold antlers.

She cannot see
me,		maybe she chooses
not to. Rubber 		hand 
to rubber hand		you teleport away.

I wake up,
	my underwear is a pink
tent, sheltering
	a villain. 

Matthew Buxton

ode to the taco bell baja blast freeze

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I know it sounds silly

but drinking you is my

favorite exercise in piety. In

your bright green nothing

There is time. My very own

golden age. My private 

industrialization. My

artificial farm-to-table. Out

the sliding drive-thru door

and into my car window. Your

very own hero’s journey. Passed

from hand to hand, the 5pm

sunlight ignites you in synthetic

green fire, embraces you like

a special kind of god. My 

very own creation of adam. My

dionysian delight. A sip, ecstasy.

Another, rapture. You are my

modern rhapsody. My secret 

evening radio. Your frigid 

ice-touch. Your arctic

embrace. I welcome 

your brain freeze. My 

very own frostscape. My

perfect little winter

vacation. Your clear-cupped

cage. Your off-white straw

that beckons. That pleads.

They make me sad and 

thankful. Your very own

prison. Your secret lock.

My secret key. Our 

forever-dance. Our 

endlessly ticking time bomb.

Nathan Rubin

proof that we’re all in love with each other

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i always notice
when you
take out an earbud to
hear me whisper-recite
my poems
or when you
brew the coffee
just a little stronger
after my complaints
of its watered
downness
or when you
mirror a habit of mine
like how you started
laughing through your teeth
just like i do
and stopped throwing
butts in the street
to put them gently
once cool
in our garbage can
just like i do
even though they
make our place
smell like the
floor of a bar
(a good bar)
or when you
remember it’s
a holy day for me
even though we have
only spoken a few times
in that one class
or when you
call me
to complain about that
embarrassing thing
mom just did
on your first day
despite your hatred
for phone calls
or when you
bring over a
bottle
of wine
and five dollars
for the movie
we rented
or when you
smile at me
in a genuine
full blown
toothy way
when you
sit facing me
on the bus
and then get off
the stop before
me

Sasha Rivers