Ulisces

I conquer the world to a slow dance,

bring a city to its knees like a lullaby -

hurl the concrete with my whirlwind romance;

use eighty-eight keys as my alibi.

Something's twisted in the mirror though;

the sullied suffocation of Dorian Gray -

exonerated, I made it but belated, go

ignite the suspicions that will light my way

home to a perfection I never knew existed.

At this top of the world I will plant my flag,

strip all of the stars that ever tried to resist it,

bottle them and sell them in a brown paper bag.

If this is all porcelain, I'll crack it like I did,

sprinkle its dust across the grand piano,

turn around and start chasing diamonds instead.

I can't stop playing to 34% of Diageo

and I'll always be addicted to reminding you

of your flaws. So baby, give me another shot

in my arms between the altar and the pew;

confessional: dear Lord, I gave it all that I got.

If this is the closing of the chapter, song - Søren, dare

tell me not to feel sorry curled around the toilet that night?

Hold that thought - I looked down at my superman underwear

and suddenly knew that everything was always gonna be alright.

The New Year (or Feed Me Hot Peppers, I Must be Dreaming)

If I've learned anything this past year, aside from equity valuation and yield curves, it's that life will amaze you.

Everyone knows that you can spend countless hours fretting and planning, tossing and turning sleepless in bed, worrying yourself sick, and life will turn around and render those hours inconsequential by resolving everything, and then some.

But what I've learned is that you can spend hours dreaming your wildest dreams, envisioning the impossible, painting these fantastic pictures in your head...and life will scoff at you. But it won't be ridiculing your dreams; instead, it'll call you an underachiever, a pessimist, and a darn fool. It will take the most ridiculous path towards achieving dreams you didn't know you had, dreams that are far wilder than anything you ever imagined. Sure, it will hurt you along the way, and teach you a thing or two. There will be dark times when you're sure it's led you astray, and darker times still when you're sure it's all but abandoned you for the wolves. But when the fog clears and your legs feel ready to give out beneath you, you'll find nothing short of a paradise, El Dorado, Shangri-La that you never knew existed.

And so, coming into this new year, I've resolved to let life do its winding and twisting through the hills and valleys as I ride along. Regardless of where I am, I'll be focused on the moment and making the most of it. Sure, I'll have hopes and fears, but I'll have them knowing that there is so much more out there, and that maybe someday, I'll find out that my fears were misguided and that my dreams were, well, understated. And because I'm roommates with a chili fetishist who enjoys torturing himself with the spiciest dishes imaginable, I'm also resolving to eat more spicy foods, to, y'know ... (forgive me) spice up my life.

All I Want for Christmas

It was snowing in Manhattan, and Jonathan brushed off his corduroy trench coat as the door swung shut behind him. A janitor was mopping the marble.

Jonathan carefully stepped around the water and strode across the lobby to the concierge. "Charles," he said, "is there any mail for me?"

"Welcome home, sir." The concierge turned and pulled a short stack of letters from the row of mail-slots behind him. "Here you are, sir. Happy holidays."

Jonathan shuffled through the letters and found a handwritten envelope nestled between two catalogs. He paused. There was no return address, but the smudged postmark seemed to read Nashville. Jonathan shrugged. Maybe it was from one of his former coworkers. With the catalogs tucked under one arm, he extended a finger under the flap and sliced the envelope open as he walked across the lobby to the elevator.

The bronze elevator doors opened, and Jonathan stepped in as he removed the letter from the envelope. A soft jazz rendition of I'll be Home for Christmas whispered from the speakers, and Jonathan pushed the button for the 42nd floor as the doors slowly shut.

The letter was handwritten on lined paper.

Merry Christmas Johnny. It snowed in Nashville last night, but most everything has melted and the snow that stayed behind is grey.

Johnny, I left. I have a job now, a real job. Down at a restaurant by the interstate, I'm a waitress. They serve flapjacks down there, and sometimes eggs, Johnny, even at night. You would like the flapjacks, Johnny. They make them real fluffy, and I would cover it with maple syrup, just the way you like it.

I still wear the red shoes you bought me, Johnny, even though the heels are starting to go. And I'm engaged now, and I think I love him. He draws all these beautiful pictures of meadows and farms and the country, Johnny, and I think he loves me too.

I had a son and I named him Benjamin, just like in that story you told me about the man who dived into the Cumberland River trying to save the woman's life. He's not yours, Johnny, but I just wanted you to know.

I still think about you, Johnny, whenever I see the Cumberland River.

One day, I'm going to buy a boat and sail down the Cumberland to Mexico. I'll get myself a house on the water and paint it red and eat flapjacks everyday. I think I'll be happy, Johnny. I do.

Because hell, Johnny, I don't sell my body no more, though I still have that scar on my back from where you cut me with the bottle. And I know you're sorry, Johnny, that you didn't mean to hurt me. I know you were never like my other clients, Johnny, I downed two fifths of bourbon when you left Nashville for good.

And hey Johnny, truth is, Benjamin never had a chance. I had to abort him three months into the pregnancy, when his father was taken away and I damn near went mad. His father is up for parole next Christmas, Johnny, and we're still engaged. I would visit him everyday if I could, but see, Johnny, the only time I can visit the pen is when I serve breakfast down there. They said I was sick, real sick, and they got me in this room in the psych ward, and I'm wearing the red shoes with my uniform, and the only thing, Johnny, the only thing I can see through the bars in my window, the only thing, is the Cumberland River.

Good bye, Johnny.

A bell dinged as the elevators door opened to the 42nd floor. Jonathan turned the page over, as if he expected something to be written on the back. It was blank.

The elevator doors began closing, and Jonathan reached out an arm to stop it. Stuffing the letter back into the envelope, he folded it in half and slid it into his trousers pocket before emerging from the elevator.

As he opened the apartment door, the sound of a TV show stole into the hallway, followed closely by the faint smell of roast chicken.

"Hey dad." His son was splayed out on the couch, attention fixed on the television.

"Hey, where's your mother?" Jonathan asked as he hung his coat on the rack by the door.

"She's unpacking a chicken we just picked up from Zabar's."

"Okay, tell her I'm going to take a quick shower."

Jonathan walked over to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. It was still snowing, but he walked over to the balcony anyways and, sliding the door open, stepped outside. His fingers reached for a cigarette, and, as a frosty North wind canvassed Manhattan, he lit up. Against the glittering backdrop of billboards and streetlamps, Jonathan removed the letter from his pocket and tore it into a thousand tiny pieces. Then, just to make sure, he lit each piece with his cigarette before releasing it into the falling snow.

As Jonathan extinguished his cigarette and stepped back into his apartment, a gust of wind blew past, propelling the string of burning letter pieces Southward like little red Christmas lights to Mexico.

Almost

I've got a map and it says that there's only 300 miles till the morning; I won't spill my guts like the deer in the shoulder, but you can be damn sure I'll sing.

The road smiles back at you; today is just the beginning of the rest of the world.

Finer Things

He sat alone in the darkened living room, the glow from his computer screen vying with the dim light of the kitchen for the pleasure of illuminating the pale buds of his bare skin. A frenzied John Coltrane piece swept through the room's shadowed corners, and, between wincing at sips of a $7 sauvignon blanc from a plastic cup, he tried desperately, in his stupor, to make sense of - to love - the sophisticated musical mess.

Bloody hell.

He turned off the music, flicked on the living room light, picked up the worn copy of The New Yorker sitting by his feet (his family doctor's address neatly scissored from the bottom right corner), and tossed it in the recycling bin. Then, before stepping into the shower, he scrolled to Katy Perry in his music collection and began playing Teenage Dream, making sure to turn the volume up all the way.