Return from New York
I'm home...
...but I think some New York may have hitched onto my being
How strange is it that I miss the subway, that netted mess of metal? There is a small Indian boy dancing with the pole, smiling, singing, stopping only to look for the Bollywood makeup artist. The inky outside rocks you to sleep and pulls you over the grass of sparks that glow in the door gaps. Two Jamaicans discuss the finer points of drumming, one in a wise guy hat, both missing their stops in the heat of words. A fistful of lanky French boys argue over girls, a grizzled black man asks for a handshake simply because we told him the way to Conney Island and smiled when we tried to convince him not to go because it was past the witching hour.
(We drink beer in bed like it's water in front of the fan. When you've gone in the morning I write frantically in my journal as the side of my palm is warmed by the head of a small dog.)
Throngs of tourists meander completely, migrate diagonally down Madison and 5th and 7th and past advertisements obscene in size. Dart across on yellow and red, British women scream at me. Serendipitous ice cream and the underground stations so oppressively hot they must of dug accidentally into hell when they made them. Steam grates seem to support this. There's construction everywhere - a woman stands a full 20 feet back as a fat rat looks for lunch just outside his plywood door. I search all of Central Park for a business man who's decided to take a nap ruining his suit in the shade.
Everyone tries to hand me cds, a man screams that I need this music like I need the soul I feel in my heart - I duck into a bagel shop for egg on a roll. The Flat iron building is marked with orange repair, women argue about a less than gentle gentleman on the park benches. Someone tells me I'm stuck in the 70s, a girl defends me. Strangers make sure I'm not lost when I'm not. I lead tourists to Ground Zero.
(The rain pounds on the air conditioner and I want to share the storm with you but you're sleeping too soundly.)
At the museum of modern art, there's more spoken French than English, Russians peer at the photographs of Soviet architecture, I am excited by more Kara Walker. The lily pads almost knock me backwards into the hands of the Oneiroi. A trio covers Elvis songs in Washington square park while I eye the edge of NYU and the rowdy fountain. For hours we search for the Squid and the whale, and there it is in the dark, while the giant blue looms above it. Dinosaurs cause my mind to wander - our little gang peers at the largest arms of any creature. The giant tomb of civilization is presided over by the statue of Roosevelt.
The smoothing robot tones of the L train leave me slightly at odds with my surroundings.
(We talk fiction in a little dinner that's scratched with greenery. The way we walked through the freezing drizzle, how the wind tried to take your tiny pink umbrella, how we scrambled to get hot chocolate we never made but I smiled every time you ate a marshmallow.)
There's strange Asian girls with long hair in their faces, rocking glasses like Yoko. Everything about this place screams avant garde down the throat of the canal. Clouds of hipsters, the confused Australian girl in a leopard skin dress tells me I'm out of place with her eyes. Carroll Gardens is shook awake by Italian screams, almost no light pours into the brownstone dungeon I sleep in.
I want to live simultaneously in St Marks bookstore as well as Kim's Video. There's a security guard they must of hired because he looks life Shaft. I buy sunglasses from an Indian man, maybe the father of that little boy (pretending everything in the universe is connected) who 'give me a special price' I'm his 'first customer of the day.'
(When you're head is in the crook of my arm I think I'm a carved statue and wouldn't ever dare to move except to soften the tangles in your hair.)
I stare off into nothingness standing at the desolation of Rockaway, the air train glides with clunky grace full of laughing employees and sullen commuters. In the airport I play business man – I shave in the bathroom and practice putting on a tie. I roll up my dress sleeves and sit with my black shades and jeans like a lovely dealer.
Reading Civilization and It's Discontents in the Dallas airport can get you down, no matter how high you were flying. I recognize three people on the small plane. As we descend into Tucson the lighting takes pot shots at the plane, we skip-fly through the puffs of storm.
(I try and kiss you as slow as time will allow)
...but I think some New York may have hitched onto my being
How strange is it that I miss the subway, that netted mess of metal? There is a small Indian boy dancing with the pole, smiling, singing, stopping only to look for the Bollywood makeup artist. The inky outside rocks you to sleep and pulls you over the grass of sparks that glow in the door gaps. Two Jamaicans discuss the finer points of drumming, one in a wise guy hat, both missing their stops in the heat of words. A fistful of lanky French boys argue over girls, a grizzled black man asks for a handshake simply because we told him the way to Conney Island and smiled when we tried to convince him not to go because it was past the witching hour.
(We drink beer in bed like it's water in front of the fan. When you've gone in the morning I write frantically in my journal as the side of my palm is warmed by the head of a small dog.)
Throngs of tourists meander completely, migrate diagonally down Madison and 5th and 7th and past advertisements obscene in size. Dart across on yellow and red, British women scream at me. Serendipitous ice cream and the underground stations so oppressively hot they must of dug accidentally into hell when they made them. Steam grates seem to support this. There's construction everywhere - a woman stands a full 20 feet back as a fat rat looks for lunch just outside his plywood door. I search all of Central Park for a business man who's decided to take a nap ruining his suit in the shade.
Everyone tries to hand me cds, a man screams that I need this music like I need the soul I feel in my heart - I duck into a bagel shop for egg on a roll. The Flat iron building is marked with orange repair, women argue about a less than gentle gentleman on the park benches. Someone tells me I'm stuck in the 70s, a girl defends me. Strangers make sure I'm not lost when I'm not. I lead tourists to Ground Zero.
(The rain pounds on the air conditioner and I want to share the storm with you but you're sleeping too soundly.)
At the museum of modern art, there's more spoken French than English, Russians peer at the photographs of Soviet architecture, I am excited by more Kara Walker. The lily pads almost knock me backwards into the hands of the Oneiroi. A trio covers Elvis songs in Washington square park while I eye the edge of NYU and the rowdy fountain. For hours we search for the Squid and the whale, and there it is in the dark, while the giant blue looms above it. Dinosaurs cause my mind to wander - our little gang peers at the largest arms of any creature. The giant tomb of civilization is presided over by the statue of Roosevelt.
The smoothing robot tones of the L train leave me slightly at odds with my surroundings.
(We talk fiction in a little dinner that's scratched with greenery. The way we walked through the freezing drizzle, how the wind tried to take your tiny pink umbrella, how we scrambled to get hot chocolate we never made but I smiled every time you ate a marshmallow.)
There's strange Asian girls with long hair in their faces, rocking glasses like Yoko. Everything about this place screams avant garde down the throat of the canal. Clouds of hipsters, the confused Australian girl in a leopard skin dress tells me I'm out of place with her eyes. Carroll Gardens is shook awake by Italian screams, almost no light pours into the brownstone dungeon I sleep in.
I want to live simultaneously in St Marks bookstore as well as Kim's Video. There's a security guard they must of hired because he looks life Shaft. I buy sunglasses from an Indian man, maybe the father of that little boy (pretending everything in the universe is connected) who 'give me a special price' I'm his 'first customer of the day.'
(When you're head is in the crook of my arm I think I'm a carved statue and wouldn't ever dare to move except to soften the tangles in your hair.)
I stare off into nothingness standing at the desolation of Rockaway, the air train glides with clunky grace full of laughing employees and sullen commuters. In the airport I play business man – I shave in the bathroom and practice putting on a tie. I roll up my dress sleeves and sit with my black shades and jeans like a lovely dealer.
Reading Civilization and It's Discontents in the Dallas airport can get you down, no matter how high you were flying. I recognize three people on the small plane. As we descend into Tucson the lighting takes pot shots at the plane, we skip-fly through the puffs of storm.
(I try and kiss you as slow as time will allow)
