Poem in your pocket day

So as I was walking to work today, a girl handed me a folded up piece of paper that said "Poem in Your Pocket" on one side. Inside was W.B. Yeats' Sailing to Byzantium.

Apparently it's Poem In Your Pocket Day New York City, I guess as a nice way to round out National Poetry Month. It made me very happy. It's like the universe keeps trying to send me small reminders of who I am and where I belong.  I started thinking about all the mini-poems I write all the time all over New York that I never publish because I think they're too insignificant. But it seems like Poem In Your Pocket Day is the perfect opportunity, plus I remember where I was when I wrote all of them, so they sort of awesomely map out my life in New York. Here they are.*

The city (and its wind) (written on the steps at the 34th street 6 stop, on a brilliant sunny day in April)
The city wind flirts with lewdness in the spring
Blowing up the sundresses of pretty girls everywhere
Their cute little hands dive down
Like Japanese fighter planes descending onto Pearl Harbor
Grasping desperately at their hems
Down
Down
Down
Strange men get aroused at the sight of women all over New York
Trying to hide their panties
They call Chicago the windy city
But NYC is probably windier
And definitely
Hornier

untitled (written drunk in a bathroom in the east village late one night)
I have a rockin' body
But you'll never see it
Under my flowy dresss
It ebbs


untitled (written standing on a corner in Tribeca waiting for a friend after work)
I wore my boots today but I didn't wear a coat
Weather's got me all twisted
Love is boring me to tears
Anonymously rejecting anonymous consumption
But now I'm chilled because I
Don't have a damn coat
I wanna know what I look like
When I have an orgasm

bed (written 75% asleep in my childhood bed in Birmingham - this image came to me and I had to write it down)
 He counted
the number
of female forms
in his bed,
just to make sure
he was still himself
and not someone else.


art (written while walking down the sidewalk in Harlem)
Puttin my iPod on shuffle
'Cuz there are just too many goddamn choices
And I lack the ability to choose
Or know what I want to consume

even babies wave (this one's longer - written in my bed in Alabama)
Just remembered last night I saw a shooting star from the plane window
I'm not sure I've ever seen a shooting star before
I was feeling, not depressed, but highly apathetic
Tired
Sick
Inflamed
Then as I looked up from my map to the horizon, I saw a flashing light
Not sure what I had seen
I thought it was like another plane coming toward us
I jumped forward in my seat a bit
Suddenly awake
Suddenly there
I smiled really big
The universe was just responding to my pleas
Just like a little wave
Hey Meghan
Don't give up
Never give up
Just live live live
And keep lovin if you can
There's an arc for you
This is just the beginning
At the end is a bright explosion
Full of stars
And happiness
And lust
And love
You will not go gently into that good night
(or whatever it is they say)
This is not your destiny
Oh, and above all
Follow your heart.
Never forget it. If something inside you beckons you to a time or a place
Remember you control your destiny
At least in part
And that is a beautiful thing
Don't be scared by it
Embrace it
Embrace life
I mean
It was just a fucking shooting star
But it was for me, in the moment
And it was a poem, for me
And now it's this poem
As I lay in my childhood bed in Alabama
It keeps shooting


*Feel free to cut these out and carry them around in your pocket. :)