Monday

At 9:00 Kristin's front hall smelled like lilies. A woman wrapped a silk scarf around her ears. A reedy Asian girl followed her dad, stroking her scooter forwards. Crossing Church I sensed this one skyline image gradually replacing most childhood memories.

Wine we'd drunk to celebrate Kristin staying in New York left me scattered. Delivery-cart tracks rolled in and out of puddles. At the end somebody stacked soda cases. City Hall reflected in the deep blue part of windshields. Giant light bulbs had duct-tape at their tops. A driver slept with his mouth agape, looking like a Francis Bacon. A twelve year-old with an earring tilted his head and stared.

A Canadian trucker's gap-toothed smile reminded me I'd dreamt of kissing pink cotton. I remembered another dream (hiding long fingernails; then a cavernous house my mom had rented, with pink confetti in the front bushes).

On E. Broadway a monk wearing saffron robes peered out from his storefront temple. He seemed impatient. Several nearby institutions had titles approximating World Center for Buddhist Thought. Somebody androgynous with feet propped on garbage bags cooed. Someone's boss watched storefront gates rise. In the Wing Yung Public School window kids' names hung posted to sheep and swans. Generators lit a fruit-market's lamps. I passed the Confucius statue, considering the other statue—in Chatham Square, dedicated to the first anti-drug advocate in China—puzzled by this entire history, presuming we'd forced opium on a lot of people.

Climbing the Manhattan Bridge I saw carts canted toward the curb. Behind a power box two bodies lay zipped in rainbow sleeping bags. A pink cherry below on Bayard lost none of its charm beside ugly municipal buildings. Division remained the most "real" street I'd ever seen in New York—what was it, the dimensions? How a figure's always cutting diagonally across?

The closest roof prompted further questions: Do taggers just lean and paint downwards? I felt like I'd read a lot lately about the specific political roots of graffiti. Where I stepped somebody had written RACECAR. The next patch said Consider: 4 % of Chinese are registered to vote. A sleek silver D-train ascended.

Laundry hanging in sixth-floor kitchens could have signified economic ingenuity or despair. I passed my ex-girlfriend Abby's building trying to guess which room was hers. A Q-train shot by next to me. Fences on both sides shuddered. I kept withdrawing, away from the cold, petrifying like some disappointed reptile. Water-taxis took forever to disappear. Waves blowing northeast spiraled sometimes. As spray crashed over Pearl Street's rocks someone who looked like me took photographs. Cobblestones turned vivid when somebody crossed. Dumbo's office-lofts stood solid.

Fences corralled me to Sands and Jay. Brooklyn felt even colder than the bridge. I grew frustrated behind construction vehicles. I got lost in an endless courtyard filled with crown-like tulips resembling Westpoints. Further up Tillary I found a Brooklyn Bridge entrance. One boy passed with cornrows: driving jauntily but clutching a tissue wad. A well-scrubbed cop eyed my hood skeptically. A strip of dry leaves swirled like a dragon.

The Jehovah's Witness clock's flashing spaced me out. Staten Island seemed hilly and half-covered in shade. I wanted to ask one woman if she needed help (though economically she looked fine). The song "Candy" by the band Cameo emerged from my past to overwhelm most of this bridge crossing. Everyone spoke Italian and paused erratically. My ears clogged to the point where two congestions touched.

Along Park I read about the Senate leader's fiery speech to some church of 10,000. "We Got the Beat" drifted from an adjacent bar. On my walk back to the elevators Raphael ducked behind his desk (delighting some kids). On the ride up I considered how nothing irritates me more than getting arrested by an infant's gaze. I'd taken my pants off before the door had closed, needing my legs to rub gentle air. I had to run warm water on my hands before I could write anything.

Tuesday

I didn't put contacts in because of blotchy corneas. The blossoms beyond my glasses resembled distant snowcapped mountains. From the example of a bald man squatting under a bus-stop sign I projected everyone embracing today with a casualness I lacked. So I turned around amidst the acoustical preface to "Hotel California." My apartment felt like refuge from a punishing sun. I put in my contacts and, with one eye pulsing, passed from Don Henley's voice to 8:37 brightness. Luis glanced up from his tools. He ignored my nod. Heavy traffic held me at the curb just long enough to generate penned-in hysteria.

In the park a woman kept saying "turtle" as she spoke of bygone springs spent with a brother. I wondered what response she so craved from her boyfriend. Crabapple boughs (a guess) bloomed out from the general green. The Meer lay glassy. My neighbor with a wheelchair and beret passed slowly—so his dog could piss before the leash went taut. A Korean girl smiled to confirm the sad respect we shared for this elder. A redwing blackbird spun displaying its stripes. A heron poking along the water's edge slalomed through reeds whenever possible.

Out of shoulder-deep muck stepped a normal pigeon; it climbed ashore and shook off. A woman performing knee bends looked confused. Approaching obnoxious boys I blanked. Willows had dropped fuzzy wormy strands. An old ashen beech twinkled.

Inside the Gardens a squirrel broke a branch and sniffed. The Untermeyer Fountain stood flowing again. A young gay white guy in heavy-framed glasses led five tough teens around the blandest tulips. A student whispered That's the lady from the office. Where she pointed a woman did tricep-building push-ups. Benches bearing Freshly Painted signs resembled dark horses with glossy coats. Mist among magnolias inspired me to pass through gardeners' sprays. As I turned in I found figures wearing facemasks and full body-suits. Orange lamplight glowed under thickening branches.

I exited surrounded by wiry women with powder-blue sweatshirts that said Volunteer. Late-blooming narcissi pleased me most: Pixit, Jenny, Lemondrops. Jewel of Spring tulips contained all I'd ever wanted (like Morning Glory muffins). Those Virginia Bluebells, someone said, will be gone before you know. The trucks roaring down Fifth sounded like a fantasy. The lilacs explained my itchy pupils.

A pony-tailed photographer said Hi from where he lay on slabs, sounded kind and real—made the sixties seem a country people still could visit from. Police vans made the trail I climbed a squeeze. Near the compost heap one shady mound turned into a man awakening with stubble. Birders exchanged binoculars: consistently dressed in long dark coats. From Rustic Bridge #32 I watched a Raisinettes box glisten. The pulled weeds looked like watercress.

The waterfall just past Huddlestone Arch deserves sustained attention. People about to collapse (emotionally) must often stand beneath. Sunbeams rippled against thick stalks. I wanted to compliment the broken glass. A bicyclist hit stairs, veered towards dirt, partially spinning onto Park Drive traffic. The lingering puddles in Lasker Rink would dry this afternoon.

A turtle stretched its neck farther than I thought possible. I told a swan There's watery light reflecting off your belly. One smiling black man propped his head on the thinnest of papers (AM News). One Asian man did bizarre torso twists and two white girls mimicked his routine.

Amidst fluorescent light in Parkview Deli I sensed how much other mornings differed from mine. As a carpenter strained to recall coworkers' requests the sandwich-girl's thigh pulsed. A deliveryman spun about desperate for somebody to sign his invoice. A short Mexican in a cowboy hat made hauling a guitar seem easy. An African woman strode south with blue laundry bags on her head. My left eye had pinked slightly. My right one held a dead bug.

Wednesday

Klever (the ex-doorman) stood back behind the desk for a day, so I stopped and we discussed his kids. I didn't check my cellphone on the way out because I didn't want Klever to think I hadn't enjoyed our talk. But when I got to Church it was 12:21. Leaving at lunch hour left me dizzy. My grandpa's blue raincoat sealed most pores. I sensed why painted bodies die. I noticed the distinct shape of every building. It felt like flickers of consciousness around my family.

By Reade I'd turned woozy—passing a Bento-Box cart covered in Grand Opening signs, then caught between a rottweiler and an aggressive cocker spaniel. Someone screamed at the spaniel's owner Move! Walk away! I'm trying, the woman said, I don't know what's happening!

The situation dissolved except lingering stares. A boy appeared in ersatz medieval armor, tapped his sword every second step. A tired woman glared back like I'd checked her out (but I only started looking once she checked out me). Plum branches bloomed along a parking garage.

Still adjusting to humidity I almost caused a crash at the complicated Park Row intersection. A Fung Wah bus driver stood stiff wearing sunglasses. An old Asian man seemed to sense how stylish his brown bell-bottoms were. Across the street both stores sold bulletproof vests; I can't believe cops aren't given that stuff.

I cut towards the McDonald's off Bowery, desperate for a bathroom, pessimistic about my chances. Maudlin flute music played inside. Bland woodblock prints and ferns surrounded a two-floor fountain. Appraising angular lamps on my push upstairs I wondered if the Asian theme targeted tourists or locals. I was the only white person in the place. I would have told a line of girls the men's room sat empty but didn't know if this might come across as insulting. I left feeling soothed.

Mott St.'s charming vertical signs mitigated my return to weird air-pressure. I swerved onto Aldrich past a long austere post office. A stylist dried salon windows with just an index card. A bike lay curled and melted. I could hear my heart beat for about a block. Then I was back on Bowery: watching pairs of women sift through rhinestones.

As always when I'm in a rush downtown I passed a sandwich shop that looked appealing. With a pulley-system someone dropped planks through an apartment window (no sound). With a tiny broom a custodian steered hissing water along the curb. Somebody else wrapped a deli display-case in blue plastic. Someone wiped the demonstration slicer he had whirring on the sidewalk. I wondered why everything in restaurant-supply stores looks dusty. A white truck double-turning (does that make sense?) stripped the fender off an old black woman's sedan. Pedestrians winced.

Potted geraniums along the Bowery Bar wall left me worried rowdy people would push them over. Pint-glasses glared from a stoplight box. The cab of a UPS truck looked breezy. A rotund man walked as if each step was a cringe. Rosary beads? he mumbled. I sensed but somehow never saw necklaces on a hanger. I stopped to watch kids play soccer with a green fuzzy size-4 ball. I wondered why workers' gloves often have the palm dyed dripping red. What had seemed a taxi flashed sirens—made everyone pull to the curb.

As we approached Union Square perfume off one white woman's fringe left me feeling passive. In James Madison Park teens slept sitting with dark cloth tied around their face. Behind them various newspapers had been hung to dry. Behind this stood a pine oak from James Madison's yard. Close to it a boy bit into something pink.

Somebody stared down a cab about to cut him off and I smiled because I'm often that person. Somebody sticking his head from a van tucked it back in like I'd wanted to kiss him. When I dropped a quarter one man leapt as if to prove he wasn't stealing. Standing straight I almost collided with a couple. Amidst a jostling crowd as the walk sign changed I couldn't really see.

Thursday

Pale mist at 9:03 felt like my natural weather. I wondered if my hair looks best foggy mornings. I glanced back and saw Frankie wearing goggles. Hello, he called, instead of his usual OK!

Honking geese made the morning lucid and tender. Dandelions hadn't been there Tuesday. A West African curling dumbbells spoke to his daughter in the prettiest French. A jogger in a coolie hat barely moved forwards. I turned into the North Woods just as three gay Germans (two shaved bald) stepped out. An hour later I'd see them in the East 100s.

As I ascended towards greenness two white-bellied birds I'd thought were blue jays sang. Though Thoreau stresses being still in the woods I couldn't sit and wait for rustlings to reveal their sources. After more bad job news and predawn insomnia I wanted to know this world with me walking through it. A man with dreads drinking coffee and I kept weaving past each other on divergent trails. A worker stood on woodchips placing calls. I crossed two bridges that don't get named in the 150^th Anniversary Map and Guide but iron grids directing The Loch somehow spoke to all that history.

Climbing loose rock into North Meadow I came out on three kids and a baseball diamond. The two boys sat silent in orange sweatshirts with numbers. The blonde girl in glasses giggled looking up. A guy bounced near handball courts waiting for a game.

I passed two mutts really going at it: the owners talking politely as if someplace else. The top dog got pulled when a Parks Enforcement vehicle approached. Two officers stepped out. The bottom-dog's owner apologized for removing its leash. I'm sorry, she said, I just thought with all this space. I'm sorry, I kept hearing, but I could only see the police truck. I'm sorry I'm sorry.

The East Meadow lay almost absent of dogs. I couldn't tolerate one airedale's master's strides. Planners assembling a stage at the Park's edge stood split along a giant extension cord. From the Fifth Ave. wall someone watched with a frown. It was obvious he wanted work.

The billowing outfit of the woman stepping from a bus somehow never obscured her pleasant shape. Our paths met at the Arthur Brisbane memorial. Brisbane sounded familiar, but the overwrought catalogue of his achievements suggested a gulf between now and 1936. A doorman and a poodle jogged past with both appearing to do it for the other's health.

In the Gardens plaid-skirted girls with Spencer sweatshirts sat on tiles sketching Texel Blues. Queen of the Nights and Esthers looked promising (though my walks are never timed right for tulips). The Actaea narcissus finally showed itself lovely. New staff taking notes followed a barrel-chested trainer. More Star Magnolias, she said. You saw a lot of them in Queens.

Beyond the gates Hispanic boys rode bikes and gnawed at Good Humor ice cream, mostly King Cones. A furtive Peruvian adjusted his fishing rod. Across The Meer I saw Luis—or someone of similar proportions and in the same ribbed shirt—stretch his calves. I'd never thought of Luis as a jogger.

Exhausted ladies laughed outside La Hermosa. They didn't seem all that religious but had definitely entered a protective space. A double-decker bus cruised past labeled North Loop: Harlem/Museum Mile/Park. A futon frame slipped from a garbage man's shoulder. I've always found garbage-truck rhythm soothing. Trophies propped a window on W 112^th. One showed a football player get tackled. Another vertically spelled out SCIENCE. In the next room a rustic frog-troupe played banjos; this I think was Senegalese.

In Family Horizons cups stood marked with kid's names and bean types. Ribbons flapped in front of Martin Luther King Jr. Senior Citizens' Center. On the next block a baseball diamond lay overrun with weeds. A bumper sticker read Born with nothing.... and I've still got it! A senior-citizen van decomposed. A woman waited with crossed arms while a bus scooped her wheelchair.

Friday

None of the clothes I'd washed in the sink had dried. I had to put back on what I'd worn before showering. Someone trailed me on the way downstairs. She hurried past the mailboxes. It turned out she had a bus to catch and she sprinted in front of it, the way I will, holding it in place. I nodded at where Luis squatted beside a wheelbarrow.

Along The Meer a girl flinched each time she brought her cigarette close. When I passed the playground I was thinking whoever fired my brother must be a total prick, hoping my mom felt no whiplash after getting rear-ended last night, wondering if I've strayed too far from grounded pessimism or if I'm just less afraid of failure.

My trail sank beneath the 110^th St. Bridge. I'd wanted to continue west but felt reluctant to turn while a foppish black man and German shepherd approached. This stranger's Good morning was classy and kind. One stray daffodil got me thinking Shouldn't I love this? Isn't this what I am? But it grew boring to be so metaphoric.

Along 108^th I understood why businesses include that street in their titles. It seemed the perfect distance from more crowded blocks. A woman sprayed blue mist and wiped gunk from her dashboard. From one rearview mirror dangled mini Puerto Rican boxing gloves. From the next hung a Native American hoop. On the Southern Baptist church—with its name set perpendicular to form a cross at the T's—a taped-up sign just read Cuidado. Two girls sat in the front of a red sedan reading thick books, using bookmarks.

I passed pastry shops I would have tried by now if the neighborhood didn't get so sketchy at night. Watching deliverymen I wondered why people spit. Where I turned into Riverside Park someone who looked just like my friend Mike Yusko sat smoking, grinning—just as Mike would if he got up this early. I glanced his way assuming he'd acknowledge me first, since it's easy to recognize somebody walking. Below us the city had recently installed a triceratops and tyrannosaurus you could climb. Pink cherry blossoms lined the promenade (I knew I'd never pass under them).

A townhouse I otherwise appreciated held patriotic ribbons wrapped around the porch. A dog crossed with its owner calling Stephen, wait! Two Scottish Terriers looked less intelligent side-by-side. An old Japanese woman wore a bowler hat. The question Was she attractive? made no sense. I was attracted to her. She needed my gaze and I delivered it.

Around New Moon Bakery it became clear that my gay side went for guys losing hair color, sporting metallic tones, with refined but somewhat stodgy taste in music. In front of a deli I learned one hundred days of the new Bush presidency had passed. One cellphone place also specialized in "sexy tongue rings" and, considering a photo from the movie "Thirteen," I thought about how sexy they truly are, except when they make someone lisp, but even that's sometimes especially sexy. One bike-shop display presented women pulling at bikini bottoms. I couldn't tell if New York was a sensual city.

From under a cab poked a pizza box printed with dewy tomatoes. Tony Alamo Christian Ministries left imitation newspapers on select windshields. The headlines read Flood. My eyes followed one fire escape to a flock of Happy 5^th Birthday balloons. I wondered if that's a big deal in Hispanic culture. As someone wearing a puffy jacket performed Tai Chi on her building's lawn I wondered how much of it was psychological. I felt like I move so much more than her while stretching.

Accelerating down 109^th I fell in with a group approaching the B-C entrance. It appeared I was about to board a train. Concrete slabs twirled high above. A construction worker spoke casually with a friend while walking across a pit on a beam. Someone carrying a child chipped soccer balls over the playground fence. The defter he dribbled the more desperate it got.

Two cooks and one distracted woman made an intense triangle. How's six thirty? the meek white guy said. Please let me think, the woman replied, now do you have a dollar?

On my own block I passed Slavs staring out from a truck platform, pointing and leering into the park. I kept waiting for them to say something so the moment could feel complete. Passing Frankie seemed so repetitive I didn't care how nice he was. I whined about our hallway reeking of incense. Sifting through stray envelopes I forgot what mail I wanted.