Creative Writing

In Your New York Dream

A prose poem.

You say goodbye forever to your wife and are found in a boat. You open the blinds. They’re here. They take you to a house where a man with a gun slung over his shoulder lets you in. There are classes you can take. The rest of the world has been chemical-bombed and you’re doing yoga. You’re not good but you try hard. You’re in the cast of Saturday Night Live and you go to a sunken room for rehearsal. Later tonight you will do a sketch with Andy Samberg. You’d like to reach him, but he’s showering. You don’t know your lines, and this is still New York, but it’s a remote island in the middle of everything—but east a little bit—but in Central Park. Only Lorne and the boys know about it. You hear Samberg has finished showering—but now he’s preparing. He needs to prepare, you’re told. Oh, fuck you, Bob. What do you know about Samberg? Samberg is in a different house, anyway. Where did all the houses come from? Somebody’s out to kill you, and it’s going to happen tonight, and there’s no time to explain to the guy that you’re innocent. More than anything you need to learn your lines. Where’s Lorne? The man going to kill you thinks it’s funny you can’t find anyone, except here’s Samberg. He needs to eat. Together you trash-pick a cup of yogurt, which you thought was going to taste like lemon and instead tastes like pear and you cry. You are on a subway platform. You’re going to live with a friend of a friend. You thought you’d solved this years ago, and you didn’t bring a mattress to sleep on, but the train is coming.

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