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I stand on a rooftop no one is supposed to be on. It overlooks the Navy Yard, there are yachts or ferries that some people at the party try to board. Everyone is trying to go where they’re not allowed. Ten other people take selfies against the skyline. A huge warehouse behind us is the location of some Stranger Things experience. Another adult fantasy playground in the city. I wonder what kind of people would pay to simulate the Upside Down, or maybe they just want Winona Ryder to be their mother for sixty minutes. She’s here, after all–her image on the building’s giant wall ad, her Girl, Interrupted wide eyes watching us. I almost make a stupid observation that it’s like T.J. Eckleburg from Gatsby. There’s no reason to say something like this out loud. In general, but also because I assume almost everyone here is a former English major. We have to vacate the roof. On the way down the stairs, we see a sign that prohibits roof access no one seemed to notice.
Before we leave the roof, I talk to a woman who’s lived in the city for four years. Time flies here, she says. I hope I can feel that way in four years, I say, but do you still like it? I guess if I didn’t, I would’ve left by now.
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For better or worse, poetry becomes a rhythm in my life again. The uncanny is driving me crazy. I see posted poems in the subway, then read a poem that talks about poems on the subway. There are readings every day, some I plan to go to and miss because there’s something else more exciting. I take the G to Queens to hear Eileen Myles read vampire poems in the hundred degree heat at MoMa PS1. During one reader’s poem, I briefly remember why I used to get annoyed at poetry readings. I wonder how many rich poets there actually are. There is a lot of snapping.
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