The Empire State Building is a giant *******
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of ****, grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate 
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror 
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "*******" State  of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your *******
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths 
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware

I suckled my mother's Bluetooth breast
while my father built me a bassinet
of series circuits with high, motherboard
bars.
I've got that artificial baby glow.
But Mom put my ****** on Facebook
at four weeks and I still haven't re-friended
(forgiven) her. My upgrade's in nine months,
but I want my downgrade now
'cause all I get are social invite excuses
from Facebook fuckfaces. We pack
our lives into little boxes that we're
not even allowed to open.
We drink to technology, keep our lazy
eyes on our news feeds, and recycle
ideas like their owners would even
want to see what we've done to them.
We misquote Confucius and credit ourselves
with mangled Robert Frost stanzas.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I think
it's awesome that Pepsi used to be blue."

Reblog, revine,
retweet, FaceTime.
Folding chair fold-out on someone's lawn.
White-out Yeats, Keats, Byron, and Auden,
and write John ******* or Tom Whatever.
We're caught in the chicken wire of an LCD
fruit basket so neat, orderly, and brushed
aluminum. How can people write in Starbucks?
S
   B  
       U  
            X
B  
     S
The cooler's too ******, music's too shy,
and the sugar, no, not just the sugar.
THE PEOPLE are too artificial.
The carpet-suit inlay I'm standing
on has pencil lead, sock lint,
and receipt shred lapel pins.
Even corporations play dress-up.

But what happens when Y2K kicks
in tomorrow?
Lives will be lost even before
the missiles **** us.
And the planes that drop
from the sky won't even come close
to when the bough breaks your little
girl's heart, baby, because your phone
can't raise her anymore, so you have to.

And based on your search history,
tweets, and recorded dreams,
she's better off in the warm
embrace of a hard drive.

On a humid mid-summer night
We traveled so far, yet so near
To a place of extravagant revelry
We had no idea what was to come that evening

It was an old-fashion party
Everything and everyone was illuminated
And why not?
It was the night of our celebration of freedom

Everyone was dancing and laughing
The sweat, the dilated pupils of the jubilant guests

I saw everything standing on the top of the wooden foothill

These stairs tested your level of intoxication
You could trip on them sober, they were so spread apart, numerous and inconsistent
And if you were drunk to the highest extent, you’d surely die trying to conquer them

We were swept away with a cold beer in each of our hands

A bearded man with a bottle of whiskey pored us shots
We downed them
And then another
In honor of the moment
And to the chance that our whiskey toting woman chaser would get laid that night

The evening was miraculous
Alcohol flowing like cool crystal rapids
*** being burned like drift wood on an unmapped deserted beach
And a vibe of comrodery between all in attendance

Digital pixilated snapshots to save this moment for nostalgic posterity

Beer pong seemed like an Olympic event

Kings
Flip cup
Thumper
Quarters

I took no part for I was too far gone by that point
I was a mere spectator
I was more interested in the various airborne angels floating in the ozone of ecstasy

I staggered up to each one individually trying to swipe a kiss or maybe even more

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kiss
SMACK

“Hi”
Kis­s
Kiss back

Whoa
Who
Was
This?

A familiar face

A gaping hole of pleasant surprise opened on my face
A look of false anger on hers appeared

SMACK!

We laughed and said hello then did a shot
***!

Then another

And talked
Our chuckles were reminiscent of an orchestral arrangement

The mother of our seemingly invisible host stood up and herded the whole party into a unanimous silent yield

“TEQUILA!” she shouted

And the whole backyard of sweaty, out of it, ***** young faces cheered and tapped the thumping music back on and formed a line

The bottles flew open like flimsy shutters during a maelstrom of wind

Limes and salt were being passed around like ten cent ******

After the last drop of tequila was guzzled down the party seemed to be swaying to and fro
And all of us had the same heavy eyed toothy smirk on us that says “yeah…I’m done”

The glorious angel that I had plucked from the heavens and I wandered to the corner of the commotion and perched ourselves in a high tree and kissed

And right below us two of our friends began to make indiscrete inebriated love to each other on a rusty swing set

Nice

But our passionate, fearless kiss blocked that out
It was so pure and shameless
Even though we both knew we were betraying the trust of our then insignificant others

The sound of bachata
The knocking of red solo cups  
Ping pong *****
And the ******* sounding voices of those trying to locate them
Were a loud soundtrack to our lustful voyage into each other’s comfort zone

We talked for what seemed like hours about how we were attracted to each other for so long
And how our relationships at the time left us unhappy and unfulfilled

We had a mindful understanding of one another
Neither of us had that before

But all of a sudden
The beer
The ***
The whiskey
And the tequila
All came back to say hello
Then goodbye as they flushed themselves out of my system and into our host’s garden

No one noticed
So I continued to relieve myself on the tomatoes and basil

The angel rubbed my back and let me go

And when it was done
She kissed me

Then and there I knew she was mine
And I was hers

Nothing mattered

Not my infinite bile projections
Not my unfit partner
Not my scarring past
Just her
Only her
Right there
Right then

We walked back to the epicenter of the soiree to see people leaving to go make their own myths of ****** endeavors
And the good friends sober enough to help their blacked out pals get home safely

So, my friend and I bid our goodbyes and thank yous to our friends and our host and their family and wobbled home
With a flaming heart and an empty stomach
Also a bladder full of bad decisions that I unleashed upon a parked dump truck on my journey home back to my bed

It's funny how you think the world revolves around you
You twirl that ***** finger and you, my notorious boy, are caught
Clearly you haven't gotten the message
You cannot toy with something that cannot be fixed
But you, you always liked breaking things that do not belong to you
Oh the joy it brings you
To crumple up the love letters, random inside jokes and sincerity
To dump it on her and pop the balloon that brings her down
You ignorant, arrogant, *******, ******* ******
Do you not understand when she tells you love is a dart game and she has given all her darts to test your trust
All you do is throw the darts blindfolded, knowing every part of her body, and realizing you have pinned her under your feet
Why would you do this, if she has poured the truth she could not hide from her love
Why would you be so blind to go forth and show her the hard way
That you are not the one
And even long after you're done, you go back to her, to see if her wound still burns from the salty tears that dripped from her worn out eyes
I would like to thank you for showing what love was
Because you were the perfect example of what it can never be

Doo-Doo Ca-Ca Stinking Crap, Defecation Dung and Turds
Oh my goodness oh my gosh, I have such a way with words
-
Do you go to take, a defecation or a crud?
The stuff that comes right out your ***, the consistency of mud
-
**** is what I call it! Does this offend your ears?
Then I wipe my ***, and shout out with three cheers
-
How about the other words, that are **** personified
******* ******* *******, **** is so implied!

ksywa* or ła(h) ła(h) - or just simply ksyva -
   and that's really pushing it,
                        it almost looks russian -
                like the łord:     vechki vechki vesteya
you do the german thing and it becomes
             veschki veschki vesteya -
                         i.e. véshkí véshkí -
                            and the acute accent means?
throw the ****** into the air!
                            and hope to catch it, when it lands
on the iota with a dot above it, like a halo,
     or the parlance of a saint gibbering (by now you know
that you can pronounce the dz unit, because
           you reall don't say gee-beer-ing;
                       or ****... you write it as jibbering?).
       oh... the word ksyva?
                                    when we're still in school
we get nicknames...
                       what was my nickname?
  given to me by a bue of a blonde?
                                                         ­      dad.
  that ***** you up... it's not like you get to handle
a nickname like that as if it were akin to: ****, cunty,
                 *******...             wormhole....
                                                 c'mon!          dad?!
what sadist does that?!
                                  how about a variant, like:
     herr mannelig            or herr holger.... and then
we can dance and cheer and drink ourselves to death
   ahoy valhalla! - style
                             i put the hyphen there because
i wanted to encapsulate the whole cheer! but not really.
    followed up by: like.
                                        but i'm really proud of myself,
i managed to solve a du doku.... ****... a su doku
                  completely off my rockers, and as you might
or might not know, no. 8987 is classified as fiendish....
this is the first time i managed to solve a fiendish category
su doku without being allowed the 4 clues
       you get when you phone up the publishers and
get the autocue...
                it looked like this:

8 7 5 9 2 3 6 1 4
2 3 9 1 4 6 5 7 8
6 4 1 7 5 8 9 2 3
9 2 4 5 3 1 8 6 7
1 5 7 6 8 2 3 4 9
3 8 6 4 7 9 2 5 1
7 6 8 2 9 4 1 3 5
4 9 2 3 1 5 7 8 6
5 1 3 8 6 7 4 9 2

          but all this leads to is more conceptualisation,
*******, the orientals invented something
  beyond western imitation, i.e. beyond the haiku!
this really is the chiral form of the haiku!
                       some puzzles have timed designations
for being solved, e.g. samurai sudoku no. 555: 34min.
         who the **** times this sort of bewildering activity?
capitalists... competition... how about i just do the puzzle
by way of relaxing, when doing it, rather than competing
from some ****** plastic imitation of gold's worth of trophy?

i'm trying to find the genesis of the puzzle's existence,
sure, i can fly to japan and talk to some yogi, or yoga or kung fu master,
but i want to do it myself...

     the best i came up with?

        convergence / divergence of the co-ordinate concept
                   of a two-dimensional graph...
          exploiting the two-dimensional conceptualisation -
          into a three-dimensional "space".

          well... because it's a bit like this:
      
     (.)squared
                       (. .)squared

                                               (. . .)squared

     (. . . .)squared
                                      (. . . . .)squared

           and you're basically for interlocking coordinations of
the same number, e.g. 5 with 5, 6 with 6.

        these beastly, dragon-equivalent orientals really know
how to play the numbers game, for one: there's a billion of them,
and second: they don't have an alphabet...
           like marco polo suggested:
             they write out the equivalent to a da vinci -
but all it sounds like is ma! or da! or ya! -
      among variant, in that, almost infinant "number" of interpolations.

there's nothing quite like being rudely woken
by a cat - that sort of shadow you wish you
had to steer off the incubus...
     only the ugliest of the norse founded
kiev...
      i wonder, as i manage to peck a spider
off the corner of my room, drink,
then eat it, and subsequently imitate
regurgitation, upon having eaten body,
and then finding the legs,
these twisting, coiling artefacts of some
sort of disembodiment...
  i really was planning to drink this whiskey
in the afternoon, then the rudeness of the cat
waking me,
              then the rage against the machine
and the idea of a buddhist,
and then the voice, that would never
amount to the said theatric of burn ******
burn...
         i can't compete being drunk and
it only being nearing 7 a.m.,
       i can only cite:
  paper boy took the day off.
                        and i lost count to
every counted sunday,
thinking it a monday;
and that's a half of a hey-yah! thong
    bridget huan jonson jerking off
the next nesting jose johnson,
calling him enrique joe.
                     or: amazon god king
conquistador it's sunrise you *******...
people have to "work",
yeah, they "work", they're
rhetoricians!
             they're the embodiment of
what's spectacular about
western society...
          high brow romancing of
      the averted moral spectrum,
like i really did begin to start ******* cockroaches...
and these women were my sunrise...
    keep the gangrenes,
the *******, the abbies...  
i love that term,
it's like reviving: greengrocer...
        like calling a pet donkey a
chihuahua and then for asking oral ***...
calling it a sloppy-jappy...
      as if it was aimed as sushi shooting
the raw argument.
hence the love of h'america...
no, i never admire or fashion
the idea of americans waking up
i the globalist part of new york,
that's gobalist, and the 24h oops...
oh wait, you didn't realise we were insomniac?!
fucl me... afternoon for them
is like pretending breakfast for the rest
of us...
        i think the dieticians call
it fibre, or something twice as hard to digest,
twice as hard to constipate out on,
and thrice the name of a wife.
i really love they didn't
catch up on the insult:
it's a bit like eating humus,
or catching the sunset.