Upper Manhattan

by N.S.

He greets me 

pock-marked and flocked with thin hair and

moving like pitch in a glass he 

shows me his paintings and 

two grand pianos I 

try to touch him show him I mean it and

something in him sticks to me. 

as we’re fucking my 

eyes wander to history books 

and yellow wallpaper and 

moles and veins this 

is almost archaeological 

thoughts like gnats 

flutter out of my ears saying I’m 

doing him a favor but I 

can feel him sticking to me and 

I almost shed a tear or 

throttle him 

after 

I creep into cold New York sunlight with

a wad of cash in my hand 

ringing like a bell

N.S. is a community college student and painter. His poetic and painting practices explore queerness, frivolity, and failure. When he isn’t painting or writing, he sometimes works at a church.