Years and years,
Of escape and consideration,
Piecing together an improbable paradise.
A decision at every corner,
Every crossroad.
Sometimes into the desert,
Into the jungle,
Onto a mesa,
Into no man’s land.
It is important,
Not just where you are going,
But, the direction from which you have come.
I am seeking answers. I am seeking contentment,
The lullabies of the breeze,
The heartbeat of the trees,
The wings of a dragonfly reflecting a rainbow,
In a puddle of mud.
I find nothing but evening falling,
Orange skies on the horizon,
An early owl,
Eager to hunt,
Before the moonrise shadows,
Stars obscured by clouds,
Hidden under the smoke,
And, not reflected in mirrors.
I find nothing but fireflies, confused by tricks of lightning,
Drifting in dreams of luminescent mushrooms,
Dancing under the cracked street light,
Down Broadway and Forty Second Street.
I am lighting up billboards and Plato’s Retreat,
Sitting with honkey tonk percussionists and rebels,
At glossy orange painted tables,
Getting drunk with cocaine and plans,
Jazz under my fingernails,
Howling from Grand Central to Soho,
A pigeon on my shoulder,
Grime and cement under foot,
Cold glass and steel in the sky,
A panhandler on each arm,
The bewildering echoes of the beat of Wall Street,
The eye of Cleopatra’s Needle,
Turned in on itself,
Watching the past,
So safe because we already know what is going to happen,
Nothing like espresso and poetry,
Snapping fingers instead of applause,
Everyone exaggerating themselves,
A “Shakespeare in the Park” actor,
Too good for summer stock,
Able to travel in any direction,
Open any door,
Be whoever you want.
Slumming on the Lower East Side,
Central Park South, Needle Park,
Alphabet City,
Another country around every corner,
From Columbus Circle to Sheridan Square,
Without a single smile,
Finally falling asleep to the rumble of the BMT,
Under the Brooklyn Bridge,
Chinatown over my shoulder,
Choking on air expelled by six million mouths,
Smothered by the dreams of everyone else,
In a hurry,
Rush hour pushing, shoving,
All scrambling to rise,
Into the money,
Or fifteen minutes of fame.
Me, too. Drowning.
“Top of the world, Ma.”
And, snap of the fingers,
Everything goes,
Up in smoke.
Street lights out.
Not reflected by mirrors.
Cracked illusions.
The Milky Way retired for the night,
Into the scream of a siren.
Into the silence of a dawn,
Of red wasps in the sun.
Fireflies gone.
Grateful for my life,
And, for an improbable paradise.
September 11, 2018
September 12, 2018 at 1:45 am
What imagery. Your poesy inspires and intrigues. You precision day poet.
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September 12, 2018 at 1:48 am
What imagery. Your poesy inspires and intrigues. You are a precious jewel.
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September 18, 2018 at 4:15 pm
You definitely encaptured the overwhelming sensation of navigating a metropolis, the sense of walking on the edge between mesmerization and overstimulation .
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September 18, 2018 at 11:30 pm
Thanks. I ought to be able to draw you into my metropolis as I grew up in the Big Apple and lived there, off and on, for 35 years. Now I live in a forest. Ain’t life grand? You never know what’s next. Just a question of what you’re looking for.
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September 19, 2018 at 3:02 pm
One day I think I’m going to live in a forest/next to a forest. For now, the jungle of concrete is calling and drawing me in, although it is interveined by green. Still the potentials keep me rooted in my urban surrounding for now, who knows what might happen in the future.
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September 20, 2018 at 12:14 am
Big City, big experiences. All things in their own time. I don’t miss the City but, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
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