On a Lucky Star bus in the Bronx.
I switch to a ball point pen.
The sloppy purple Pilot G2 produces
unmanageable letters and words.
You’ve got to have a Bruce Lee grip
on your Moleskin to write anything
with a Chinese immigrant at the wheel.
At dusk, the Expressway is free
from its usual cluster fuck of
rancid trash trailers,
parades of smoggy eighteen wheelers
and cursing commuters from Long Island.
The sun sets behind Manhattan.
All of the icons and skyscrapers
are mountains carved from
a sea of Blood Orange clouds.
I wonder if the City’s sidewalks
will produce a moment for me tonight.
A-this is really happening-top of the world-
unforgettable moment mass-produced
by a chaotic kinetic City of energies.
And yes, you are most definitely expected
to act out and rage on the street corners
tucked between Bushwick warehouses.
The thick rimmed souls sip wandering glasses
and sweat satisfaction all over one another.
These peacocks crave it all.
Most peacocks need the attention.
All peacocks belong in a flock of peacocks.
Some peacocks are really pigeons.
Elsewhere-away from the L trains,
Greenwich groceries and trampled concrete-
there is not as much of everything, everywhere.
Pick a pace, select a speed, vibe a vibe.
Rampant fetishization of capitalism by consumer tribes.
Everyone’s a photographer with F-Stop eyes.
The City is a Space with asphalt astronauts inside.