as the snow returns to Brooklyn, as I am eating my oatmeals after noon has past, post communist roommate smoking in my kitchen, the kettle begins to boil for the tea, there are problems to look to. time, a dead asset, passes by slowly like the trucks on the BQE, held up by delays and traffic. hope, God’s other false promise is tucked away in the cupboards behind the brown sugar, constantly tickled by cockroaches. dishes need scrubbing, moneys need securing. gigs. is there some sort of life where teeth are stronger, beds are more comfortable, and no one’s trying to make you into someone else? maybe it’s a day to go out walking in the snow, no one would ever hold THAT against me…