an excessive amount of blackness

Never failed anybody’s wardrobe.

Neither did hot pink hair or a little falafel.

A slice a day keeps the doctor away.

The Solomon R. . . .

R. Guggen . . .

Genheim . . .

Ashes to Ashes  a la Guggenheim.

Jackie O. rises from the lake.

Empire State of Mind Fog

The Euro-clubber and his old Jewish maid, aka Womb Buddy and Becky modeling glasses.

The mother load near Penn Station.

My hair is a mess, and Nohea compared my to Kanye’s Amber Rose in these shades.

Yeah. Hid-day-us. Needless to say, I didn’t buy them.

Border Crossing.

Guess what I sneak-read at the bookstore because good reading ain’t for the poor?

Planetarium-esque carpet? Yessss pleassse.

Empire State of Mind Fog by Night.

Night Lights.

Commies say “Black coast and black pants for everyone!”

Death by Train Commute.

My self-studded boots carried me home.

Womb Buddy, his girlfriend, Becky, and Nohea + me . . . Pizza on St. Marks amidst pink haired people. Pay-what-you-may trip to the Guggenheim. Tripping out on Modern Art. Picasso in real-life is always a trip. Nohea not getting modern art. Pretending to wait outside in the cold so we can yell at Womb Buddy. Hanging out in Borders reading $15 magazines I can’t afford. Drinking Hazelnut coffee I can afford. Penn Station. Burgers nearby. Two Wolfpack members over lunch. Joy came to visit in the city. Grey Poupon on my French Fries. Yessss. “I see where you’re going with this.” Grey Skies and foggy weather.

There’s never too much black in a wardrobe, and there’s never too much pink in someone’s hair. There’s never enough money in your pockets, and there’s always too much time spent on the train. There’s never too much pizza to be consumed, and there’s never enough sunshine. There’s never enough time.