I guess this is where it has been going for a while—
back in my first apartment in Gotham, remembering ultraviolence as a kid,
I can hear the thumping of the sea,
chest to ear,
“i could have died right there cause he was right beside me
gin raised me up—
loving him is never enough.”
I was a frequent rider of the elevator,
an expert on the buttons
as far as technology goes.
The door opened, and we rose.
A great generosity prevailed in those doom decades—
Warren Buffet was a poor boy from Omaha
come to New York to make a fortune
“he was adamant that stocks provide a wide margin of safety after weighing the trade-off
between their price and their intrinsic value.”
Yet, in the midst of 563 track fires and 7,200 train delays,
there is still a moment, trembling
on the tip of reliving and remembering
when barreling air
and that signature squeal of metro car breaks
urge me onto the scurrying rat tracks.
There are still slick, ripped smokers
tempting killer meditation as an avenue for friendship,
still the shit-filled Hudson and East River after three millimeters of rain—
and the disgruntled assumptions,
the subsidized projections of a future unfolded by the eyes of wrinkled green faces
and corporate lies.
Somewhere on this train there is a rock that doesn’t belong to its owner,
there is a dog with a boner,
a scar slowly scabbing over a self-inflicted scratch,
a bottle wrapped in plastic
tucked into a far left inner pocket,
and blue sparkle encrusted keratin flicking through a wad of ones.
Nevertheless this rock is my rock,
eye spy I
and sing glamour to the pearls after swine
while real eyes realize real lies.
There are no twinkling stars in the deep blue sea—
so I will tie my laces and smooth my teeth,
seeking the sound of simplicity.