In Walking Through Central Park I recall poems that have been important to me from memory, while on a morning or evening walk, from the west side to the east side of the park, and back again, anecdotally telling stories about my life in poetry and New York.

After this first one, these will be for paid subscribers. Become one and catch all of them.

Next: John Ashbery’s “Late Echo” and hosting John at the Wilde Boys salons in late 2010.

A Year Later

for Linda Gregg

by Jack Gilbert

From this distance they are unimportant
standing by the sea. She is weeping, wearing 
a white dress, and the marriage is almost over,
after eight years. All around is the flat 
uninhabited side of the island. The water
is blue in the morning air. They did not know
this would happen when they came, just the two
of them and the silence. A purity that looked
like beauty and was too difficult for people. 

Jack and Linda at his last reading

Jack and Linda in Greece, 1970s

Linda and I in the first hour we met, May 2009

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So Long! 


I screen all the time now. 
I’m like a Hollywood actress 
hiding out in the hills.
Except I’m right here 
on 85th and Broadway
watching the store 
across the street get torn down. 
I never did learn to grocery shop 
or be a regular person (sorry).
Mostly I went in there to buy tulips
though they rarely had white ones
so I’m glad they’re going out of business. 
Bye! Why does everyone think 
endings are so terrible? 
This world wasn’t meant 
to be inherited by the weak. 
If you can’t make it, so long!
“You’re different now,”
everyone started telling me 
after my third or fourth year
in New York. Next summer 
it will be twenty. Next summer
there better be white tulips
for sale across the street 
or I’m calling Mamdani.
Hello!? Sir. I’m a gay guy in Manhattan 
who needs a guide on: 
HOW TO BE A REGULAR PERSON.
Put it at check-out!
Give me a QR code! 
Before I’m ready to end it all 
like Britney in 2007. 
People don’t even leave voicemails 
anymore, can you believe that?
Except my friend in LA who tells me
the guy we were both obsessed with
(and who sells vapes in Los Feliz)
finally told her his name. 
Petros. I thought he was Russian, 
not Greek. Another disappointment! 
Can you see me? 
I’m here on the internet 
but I was in LA once
in my 5 inch shorts 
walking to Yoga Vibe 
and fantasizing about 
my politically incorrect
brute, Russian boyfriend.
Yeah, I know! You all wanted him.
People want a lot of things
they can’t admit to. 
But you have to be honest 
about what you want to get it
or stay an artist. 
You can’t pretend to be a tulip
when you’re really a snake.
Or you can, actually. 
Because this is America 
and you can do 
whatever fucked up thing
comes to mind.
Plenty have done it. 
Plenty have taken themselves out
or each other, and you know what,
that’s too fucking boring. 
Don’t do it. Just live
and say what you want. 
Besides, I’m Alex Dimitrov 
and I’m here to tell you
that no one can judge you.
Only this poem and God.

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Sick Sad World


Someone asks if I think 
listening to each other’s favorite song
in different places, at the same time
is a date. You are asked to share:
indefinitely, until end of day, 
for just one hour, not at all. 
I am here and still considering 
my knowledge of you:
what you had for breakfast,
where you got drunk last,
how proud you are to be included,
how fuckable you look,
how gratitude has changed your life
(though we’re the same and also not).
We’re close friends now. 
There’s someone in my building
who loves being watched
and is still closer than we are.
425 feet exactly. You should really
wipe down your mirror.
Oh look you moved your plant. 
You are making a statement.
Yes. Say that. Free everyone. 
Go off. It’s so important. 
A Franz Kafka quote. A Charli song.
They definitely go with your message.
Don’t overthink it. Don’t say too much. 
Be mysterious. Tell us everything. 
There is nothing I don’t want to know
on my way to this hell. 

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More than 300 calories and I knew it would happen. That’s his limit in one go. Anytime Lucas is drunk and feeling hopeless he’s going to hurl. Tonight it’s over some guy I’ve actually slept with but he doesn’t need to know that. Lucas is my best friend and his own worst enemy. He’s the only person who knows I killed someone back in Taos.

“This is her most underrated song,” he says, as I hold his hair back.

His hair is long and black and he has the most perfect face. Angular. Severe. Gaunt. Which on a kind person is beautiful.

Nowhere Bar is a shitty place to throw up but it’s right below his apartment so that makes it easy for now. It’s the new moon in Scorpio and Lucas is a Gemini. Too much for him to handle. He doesn’t have feelings until four drinks in and a slice. And I already felt a way letting him eat it when he told me not to, but proud of myself that I did.

“Should we go to The Cock,” he says, pulling his head up.

“I don’t think it’s a thing anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, I think it doesn’t exist.”

“It exists.”

“I mean, it’s not really that good.”

“How would you kill yourself,” he asks, as the chorus of “Ultraviolence” hits.

“Pills are great. You don’t have to bleed or feel any pain.”

“So true.”

“What about you?”

“I’d want to crash into something soft.”

“What if it kills people?”

“I don’t care. I’m not a pacifist. They can all die.”

“It’s weird how we’re told to reject violence but nature is full of it. Like, all the time.”

“Do you think I’m not masc enough for Kyle?”

“I honestly forgot about Kyle. I can’t believe we’re missing this song.”

“Don’t follow him back.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I just want to stay in this bathroom forever.”

“Okay,” I say, and my phone slips out of my pocket and the screen shatters a bit but I pretend I don’t see.

“I didn’t think it would turn out this way,” Lucas says looking away from me.

“What way?”

“You know, like, how people aren’t true. They don’t say what they mean.”

“Maybe, but it’s also two in the morning.”

“So what.”

“So I think we just go to your place and fall asleep.”

“I can’t be alone.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I know but you’ll have to go eventually.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Why did Tas say Kyle told him you were coming?”

“Did he say that? He was probably drunk.”

“You slept with him.”

“I literally never would. Kyle is someone I couldn’t be friends with and you know how I feel about people like that. Pisces moon.”

“You should have been an actor instead of a poet.”

“I know.”

“Like, you lie so well.”

“Fuck you.”

“I hate it here.”

“You’re the one who wanted to stay. Why are we sitting on this floor?” I prop myself up to leave.

“No, don’t. I can’t go out and see them.”

When I look at my phone Kyle and Adam and Tas have texted multiple times.

“We don’t have to talk to anyone ever again,” I say.

“Like in college when we lied to people in Hillman about having AIDS.”

“Deserved a Pulitzer honestly.”

“What do you think happens after we die?”

“You can’t request Lana or kneel on this tile.”

“I can’t believe I have to feel sorry for myself and perform victimhood to book this part.”

“How bad do you want to be famous?”

“I’ll do anything but that.”

“People like to know you suffered. That’s the only way they’ll believe you deserve anything.”

“But why?”

“Because real talent is actually alienating. And given by chance. That’s hard for people to accept.”

“You think so?”

“I do. I mean look at Lana. Alien genius. And they fucked with her from the start.”

“If we go out there right now what would we say to them. Sorry we’re going to my apartment and you can’t come do this blow?”

“I think we’re drawn to certain people because they’re the shape of the fucked up shit that’s happened to us. And like, we don’t have to keep doing that. We can be alone or with friends or just…anything else.”

“Okay. You’re Gandhi. I get it.”

“I’m also sure Kyle is a bottom.”

“I don’t care about sex.”

“Yeah but it’s important at first.”

“Not always. Evan.”

“That was different. I was twenty-four and my best friends were dykes.”

“I don’t even care.”

“I love that for you. So let’s go and I’ll tell them you’re bored. Leos are so easy to handle.”

“What do you think people do when they finally get their lives together?”

“Still end up on bathroom floors all the time.”

“So what’s the point of it then?”

“There isn’t one. You’re either delusional enough to forget or suffering most of the time.”

“You know that part in Manhattan when he’s listing all the reasons why he shouldn’t kill himself, and it’s like, all the things he loves about the world. And he’s talking it into that tape recorder thing.”

“Yeah.”

“I was always like, I’ll never need to be reminded of this. I’ll just remember because someone made this movie and I’ll recognize the feeling until the end of time.”

“No one remembers anything until the end of time. That’s the good news and the bad news maybe.”

When Lucas leaves the stall I watch him fix his hair in the ugly blue mirror. It’s 2:31 and neither of us know what we want. But we lose Kyle and Adam and some twink they’re both talking to, then watch Manhattan upstairs not even a third of the way in before we pass out and decide never to text anyone again.

A week later, sometime after that guy in Rhode Island shot thirteen kids in a church, B messaged on Telegram. “Would you like to see my snake?” That was the first thing he said to me. I assumed he was some wack job talking about his dick. I assumed nothing actually.

AI said Telegram was “a messaging app with over a billion users, its primary appeal being end-to-end encryption and self-destructing messages.” It made sense why repressed fags liked it. It still seemed pointless to me.

I didn’t reply to B but also didn’t delete Telegram. I went on with my Friday and forgot he had messaged at all. I stole a Balenciaga tee from INA on Prince. Didn’t work out but hit the sauna at Equinox (boring), then got drunk at Bar Bianchi because the bartender was Dutch and hot.

Halfway through my drink I noticed B had replied again. A photo of an actual snake with red and black stripes in a large aquarium, in a very dark room. “Do I know you,” I asked and sent it like a boomer with an AOL email. “Everyone thinks he’s a coral snake,” he wrote back almost instantly. “But he’s not poisonous haha. He’s actually a milk snake and just under five feet.”

On Houston, a guy with a Make America Texas Again hat was walking a very large dog. “Would you fuck Taylor Swift,” the Dutch guy asked. “She’s rich and blonde,” I said. “Everyone would fuck her, of course.”

When I got back to the apartment Jay was gone and I remembered he was staying at his girlfriend’s for the weekend. I put on 1989 (something I wouldn’t do if he was there) and blasted “Style” over and over, until the day drunk vibe wore off.

Lying in bed, I opened Telegram and out of boredom asked B the name of his snake. Again he started typing immediately and before he could answer I asked him to send a pic. “Just one of you while we’re talking right now.”

“His name is Vladimir,” he replied. Then two more pics of the snake in the same large aquarium, in the same very dark room. I could tell it was like nudes to him or something. He was so excited. He kept sending the snake emoji and my real question about what he looked like got lost.

In the next week B messaged me almost every day. I don’t know why I kept up with it. I had moved to New York for school and knew Jay and Jules but no one else. It was late August. The city was burning. Everyone was gone and the only thing to do was get drunk, watch the Open on my phone, and text B.

B was a banker. He never told me exactly for who. I lied and said I studied painting. I was twenty-two. He was thirty-seven. He lived in Fidi. I lived in the LES. And when I sent him a dick pic he took the longest time to reply (which was sort of unusual) and didn’t offer to send anything back. Not that I wasn’t curious or couldn’t ask. I liked to imagine he looked like Patrick Bateman if Patrick Bateman was autistic and in relationship with a snake.

The thing is, B talked about Vladimir like they were together. And in a way they were. “Vlad and I are going to Hudson soon.” “Vlad hates AC because it makes him so agitated.” Then once in a while, something like, “I bet Vlad would like it if you took care of him. What would you say about that?”

I mostly ignored these kind of texts even as they became increasingly frequent. One night B wanted to know if I’d ever been penetrated by something bigger than a dick. “Like what,” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “Just curious.” Smiley face emoji. Snake emoji. Lightening bolt emoji times two.

Similar to Vlad in AC, I was agitated about so many things. Taylor Fritz losing the US Open. Being broke. Listening to Jay fuck his girlfriend everywhere (including the shower). Then one day, walking up five flights of stairs in the heat to my room, I just lost it. I told B I could end it all. “Blow my brains out in the middle of Clandestino right now.”

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Come stay at my place. I’m in the Berkshires all week.” The only thing I would have to do was feed Vlad. “What does he eat,” I asked. Vlad ate mostly mice, “sometimes frogs and other snakes also.” I found that last bit weird but didn’t really inquire. I assumed I’d have to drop a mouse in his aquarium and that would be that. “He loves to strangle them,” B said. Three laughing emojis and a matte red heart followed.

I hadn’t told Jay or anyone about B because I didn’t think we’d actually meet. He was just this guy who’d found me on the internet. He was lonely and harmless and didn’t seem to have many friends. Sometimes when he let Vlad out of the aquarium I’d see parts of his apartment in photos. He had a small terrace. His bedroom was all white except for a giant flatscreen. And his place seemed sort of vacant, like he was a bachelor going to work and just sleeping there.

The day I was supposed to head over to Nassau Street, something weird happened. B didn’t message or go on Telegram at all. The last time he’d been on was the previous night so I texted him about “how to get in.” He came on and read the message but didn’t answer. An hour later he apologized and said he was getting things ready for Vlad. “Just tell the doorman 714,” he wrote. “He’ll be expecting you.”

I walked down Broadway under the sun which felt serious. I was listening to a podcast about the Night of Terror. The 77 summer blackout in New York when over three thousand people were arrested and there were close to a thousand fires in one night.

The only person I’d touched all summer was the married Saudi. The only people I’d talked to IRL were Jay and the Dutch guy. Jules was still island hopping Greece and Italy. I skipped the orientation for school vaping in front of Boiler Room and waiting for a guy in a band who never showed up.

123 Nassau was the address B had given me. It wasn’t an apartment building. It was The Beekman Hotel and 714 was the room concierge confirmed was for me. Maybe most of us wouldn’t have gone up to the seventh floor just like most of us wouldn’t have started talking to B in the first place. I never found out what he looked like or talked with him after this. Sometimes he’d message me out of the blue to keep asking for photos. Begging. He would tell me anything I did with Vlad was “super safe.” He’d also promise to wire “more crypto than you’ll need for a year of rent.”

Inside 714 was a bottle of champagne, lube, and Vlad’s decapitated body. “I kept his head so I could have him forever,” the note read. “Send me a vid of you taking him all the way in you. Please. Please. Please. Lots of love, B.”

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Kind of Girl I Am  


Sheets of rain and the city 
blinking through it. Taking 
a cigarette out on the corner 
like a call from another country 
or a nod from the dead.
Watching the dogs piss. 
Watching their humans tortured 
by something much larger. 
Though if I were you, 
I wouldn’t give in to nostalgia. 
If I were you, I would be me 
and just drive. Drive even 
if you’re walking instead.

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I’ve been in hermit mode since then, just finishing another book of poems called Alone at the Gates, and a novel, Another American Summer. I’m also writing a second Astro Poets book with Dorothea Lasky for Harper Collins. More news on those books soon.

Until then—

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I’m teaching an in-person workshop in New York this May/June. Sign up here.

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I’m teaching an online workshop about writing and living without fear. Sign up here.

Oranges & Grapes


People like you better 
when you’re doing badly
but aren’t down and out.
Linda Gregg and I 
lived on the same street
for a year in the Village
and I’d go to her apartment 
to drink whiskey 
out of a water glass
at two in the afternoon.
“I trusted people,” she’d say. 
“I believed them.”
And one time 
she gave me
an orange to take
to a man I was seeing,
though even back then 
I knew I shouldn’t,
because as soon as people 
peel an orange and eat it,
they don’t want one again
for a very long time.
Then they call you 
(out of the blue likely) 
thinking you’re orange juice
and they can have you
every morning in their fridge.
That’s how things are, they say. 
That’s what life is. 
Get used to it! 
But me, I don’t think 
that’s life at all.
I wouldn’t like to be 
anyone’s orange juice. 
I’d like to step out 
at 5 for a coffee 
in another country. 
I’d like to keep my hair long. 
I’d like to smile on a boat.
Some years ago 
I went to Monte Carlo 
for the weekend
on a date with a man 
who was dying 
and had so much money,
he said, “you’re a poet,
tell me what to bring
to the afterlife next year?”
I always bring a jacket
even if I’m going 
to California in summer
but it got me thinking 
(though I didn’t want to tell him)
how it’s not a trip you get to pack for
and how he better call the waiter
and consider the menu again
before asking for the check.
What’d you get in this life, reader?
Some emails. Some birthdays.
A reputation. Long meetings.
In which you were a person 
who was never late (good job)
and left a glass of orange juice 
on the counter
before the phone rang 
and you had to leave.
I think we’re all leaving forever. 
I think it’s why no one knows  
what to do with someone 
who sees that
and chooses to stay free
no matter the cost.
They’ll try to catch your fire, for sure. 
They’ll try to light 
their cigarette with yours
and put you in a cab
sending you home 
where they know 
exactly what you’re doing
and exactly who you’re with. 
I trusted people too, Linda.
Then things crashed
and I stopped smoking
and everyone assumed 
precisely what you’d think 
about me carrying a light.
(Still did. Still have one, btw. 
You’re so wrong, suckers.)
Don’t let anyone put you in cabs
is one lesson of this poem.
Don’t stay around people 
who need your light
for their next smoke 
is another. 
You’ve lived a beautiful life, 
I said to Mauricio
in Monte Carlo that weekend. 
Why bring anything?
Knowing the gods,
they’ll ask you
to start from zero. 
They’ll change the plan
at the last minute. 
When you think 
you’re finally orange juice,
you actually realize 
you’ve been a grape 
this whole time. 

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Writing Without Giving A Fuck

There are so many things people imagine they can’t say, write about, or even feel. We are truly living in the new World State of Surveillance where everyone tells on everyone and fear reigns. That’s small energy I don’t believe in. So in this online poetry workshop I’ll steer you toward fearlessness and writing (eloquently and well) about your true passions and what really matters to you. We will also be reading writers who have no relation to fear and a real relation to aesthetic greatness and genius. Everyone is welcome and anything is possible. You’ll leave the workshop with 4 polished poems and a new confidence.

4 week Sunday Zoom Workshop

April 12, 19, 26 & May 3 | 5:00 p.m. - 7:00 p.m. EST

$550 for 4 sessions | Max Capacity: 8

If interested send an email with the subject: “Workshop with Alex Dimitrov” to alexdnyc@gmail.com — these book up very fast every time so heads up.

Can’t wait to meet everybody.

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I Was In Love Once


Oh no coke for me 
I just wanted to be alone 
in this cab here with you 
looking at ads above 
the Seine or East River 
wondering why 
after all this time 
we haven’t ended up together 
or slept with a billionaire 
we’d scam into funding
a no one for president billboard 
you know I love watching 
your hair soaked by rain

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Photograph of Two People  


God enters through a summer wound. 
I have dressed myself 
like a boy going on a trip. 
I have dressed myself  
for the sun in my coffin. 
And why no one told me  
solitude crowds the heart 
from the start. 
Or how I never knew      
what this was 
though I asked 
all the time, every day 
til it ended. 

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Three things.

I’m teaching an in-person workshop in New York this May/June. Sign up here.

I’m teaching an online workshop this April called Writing Without Giving A Fuck. More soon.

In July, I’m heading to Joshua Tree for a radical, psychedelic poetry experience. You’ll have a chance to come with me and write and meditate and be free. Stay tuned.

New poem below.

x o

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How Does A Poem Happen

if you’re not talking to anyone 
Christian asks walking down 85th 
to my place where he’s never been 
and I am, I say, talking to everyone
(all the time really): a sober Russian 
on Raya, Yunji my acupuncturist, 
two (maybe three) people I liked in LA, 
and John Wieners who’s dead
but should be more famous 
(because this is what happens 
when you live in Boston) so yes, 
I’m going to put him here 
in this poem and a Zoomer 
can look him up then ask
if he’s allowed to say 
half the things he does in his books.
“Is cocksucker a defensible word,”
someone wrote when I taught him last. 
It is, yeah, if you’re sucking dick 
and gossiping with your friends. 
But of course I didn’t say that. 
You can’t really teach style. 
And anyway, it’s all about having 
a lifestyle, not a life. 
Everyone has that.
Everything good is about talking 
(and walking) (and taking things off).
I have made Christian yawn now.
He’s bored. How do I tell him
I don’t think we should 
sleep together again 
if only to stay better friends.
What are you doing this weekend, he asks,
and I’m trying to make something up
before he even finishes 
because a poet is an actor
except he writes his own lines. 
Christian, I’ll never tell you
(and you’d never believe me) 
but you’re a great actor 
and shouldn’t give up on your dreams. 
Plenty of people have “real jobs” 
and can’t say anything interesting 
over lunch (which I don’t eat 
but if I did it wouldn’t be a salad 
or some sad office thing).
There’s nothing wrong with being sad 
but suffering is a choice. 
I want to say this 
and won’t 
because (who can tell) 
maybe we’ll sleep together again!
How many times can you 
change your mind in life,
Christian asks, and I know 
he’s thinking about his whole future
and everything going wrong.
Well, I love the past  
but it’s another country!
You can’t keep visiting London 
when you’ve never been to Beirut. 
So nothing, I tell him—finally—
about what I’m doing.
He leans into the doorframe
taking his hand to his mouth
as actors all have these quirks
when they’re nervous 
and desperately need approval.
I’m hanging around, I tell him.   
You’re hanging around, he says.
I wait for the elevator with him 
because it’s slow
and this slowness of elevators 
is my favorite kind of nostalgia.  
Don’t give up on your dreams people.
Give up on everything else. 
Give up on real misery actually! 
Because, yes, as I’m about to show you
you can end a poem with a cliche. 
You can actually do whatever you want. 

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Purity Test

Do you think of yourself 
as a miserable person?
Would you say you enjoy life?
Do you have sex?
Do you attend parties, dinners 
or places outside of your residence? 
Have you ever changed your mind 
about anything or said something 
you regret on the internet?
Are you interested in change? 
Are you ruled by cultural opinion?
Would you say you’re afraid to rule yourself 
as a result of something you lack? 
What is the purpose of forgiveness?
Do you believe in power only if it favors you?
Is there a difference between 
policing speech and policing sex?
Why are you taking this test 
or reading this poem?
Are you turned on or off 
by how didactic it is?
Do you recognize its dogmatic 
approach elsewhere?
Would you say the first 
cancelled celebrity was Jesus?
Why or why not?
What is the purpose of history?
Should history be taught 
even if we hate what happened there?
Staying on the topic of history, 
is there a difference between 
the anti-art theatrics 
of the religious right in the 1990s 
and the often sanctimonious 
American left today? 
Why or why not?
Would you say you’re 
ready to return to pleasure?
Do you sometimes resent 
what you couldn’t become? 
Who has hurt you the most in life?
Have you ever thought about 
liberation without punishment?
When you punish yourself, 
do you want others to suffer as well?

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It was sometime last fall and I was sitting at Lucien thinking about the male experience and how similar it is to being a kitten. Taylor Swift had the number one song in America. I was reading a text from a friend about Iran and nuclear war. And as I lazily watched people walk by I thought of the differences between kittens and puppies and honestly couldn’t find many at all.

— Alex

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Frederick Seidel is my favorite living poet. We live in the same neighborhood though I know I’ll never meet him because I don’t think either of us really go out around here. I’ve been reading this biography of Oscar Wilde by Matthew Sturgis published by Knopf in 2018. Someone at Solidcore recently quoted him without even knowing. This is my favorite kind of literary reference. After the one that naturally ends up on the internet or a t-shirt sold for an obscene amount by a designer who’s probably never finished the book it’s from. The poem below is new and has nothing to do with this. Or maybe it does. The influence Britney Spears has had on my work is something I never read in reviews of my work. That’s a pity. Hence the obvious nod to her in lines 5-6, which I also see as kin to “he hit me and it felt like a kiss.” Irony should be taken seriously and everything writers tell you in earnest should not be believed. Good morning and good luck in your flesh suits today.

— Alex (and Andy Warhol, my stuffed lamb)

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Dizzy’s


A friend of mine says 
it’s good to see jazz alone. 
I live like a bachelor. 
Sitting at the bar at Dizzy’s 
like I stood in the back 
of Preservation Hall. 
Pain is itself next to beauty. 
It takes off its coat. 
I like being in a room 
where no one knows me
but it turned out to be a life. 
In the gentlemen’s, 
I am the only gentleman. 
I stare at my face.
Could have been a lot worse 
(know what I mean).
The days are colder. 
The notes slower than a whiskey neat. 
And the past, I wouldn’t change it 
but I never loved it.
It took me all this, to see that.

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Restaurant: Elea. Greek, Upper West. Branzino reminds me of my summer in Athens. Decor is that sandy wooden beach house vibe. Waiters are hot. Local vibe. Gay guys, Jewish gay guys, Jewish guys. Sorry if other people were there. I didn’t notice you.

Film: Once Upon A Time In America at Metrograph. Very old New York. De Niro is resilient and stylish. If you’re someone who keeps saying “what a time to be alive,” “things are so bad right now” — shut up, toughen up, and stream this.

Page In A Book: 306 of Gustave Flaubert’s Sentimental Education.

Song:

Hotel: The Lowell, East 63rd. Read Flaubert and had a cappuccino (real milk; they’d think you were insane if you said oat). Met Sophie Calle here in 2011. Venus Williams is also a fan of this place. Sometimes full of handsome, older French men.

Time of Day: 11ish Friday night waiting on the Uptown 1 at Franklin. Woman wearing chunky Margiela tabis yelling “I couldn’t stand you, no not even then” in her phone.

Photo:

Cup of Coffee: Fellini on Amsterdam. I use their—was gonna say drive-through—“walk-through” window a lot. Great because you can smoke a cigarette or people watch while you wait. I hate waiting indoors. Outdoors don’t mind.

Item of Clothing: This John Elliott soft leather racer.

Poem: Frederick Seidel

Tweet: All terrible. So this vintage one.

Meme: Sort of. Actual things in Madonna’s garbage, 1990.

Some categories will be the same next week. Some will change and rotate or never return. Weekly vibe check. Just for fun. Just New York. Get into it.

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