Sometimes even when everything
Seems to be going just fine,
I tend to break down on my drive home.
Sometimes everything tends to add up
And my life tends to fall apart at
The worst moments.
Sometimes I gather my thoughts
And think of my past, and what should
Have happened and what shouldn't have.
Sometimes I sit back and watch people
Living their lives so free while I sit there
And watch through the glass.

Where did my life go? I'm twenty years old and feel like I missed the last four years of my life...

N  Y’s serrated skyline,
a pale blue sleeps on teal.
But cut out
the distant end of it

and something of that shade
might wake
from under there, I feel.

The cross which I tend
to see is nearer than
N  Y. It is rusting
an old green garden on it
and there is much strangely
colored gray living in
the winding motions above it.
The last of the sun, it dying
again pours libations of
pink upon the summit.

The view is far to me
yet brings me close
to a sky’s permeation.
(Been dragging me forward
a while now to its edge,
this now ever wasting.)

This is much like the way
the Torre fell through
my eyes, pending inward
upon some mind, which
I tried to catch in my gray
gray matter (sitting next
to her) like that was
the last essential task.
I said keep it keep it.
Did not keep it. It passed.

The blue is changing now—
lighter, paler, ghost-like.
If you were here
you would know the color.
(It is the sheet spread over
when things are lifted
as if born.) Lights, smaller
than skin water specs
begin to glimmer.

A breath is a crumpled
thing, used and used but
never wasted. When I
breathe to breathe I
remember to keep
breathing. And when the
world enters my lungs,
I can choose when to
exhale time—if I breathe
to breathe.

More speckling of sky skin.
The shades are fading, darker.

Suffused under, the clouds
congregate in covers.
The Brooklyn museum
is some pantheon upon
my roman hill from here.
The street lamps flame
orange as if it all was a
constant procession
towards the unceremonious
entrance, through the changing
gates, to the unknowing
home of being.
(The blue has fallen
from the sky and dropped
onto the roofs.)
The impossibly colored
clouds smoke up in
one heap from the end,
still the same distance—
far away. (But there still
is blue behind me.
A blue has kept away
from the end.
The cross has blackened.)

I wish not to leave this
Brooklyn roof. But I have
chosen to sleep on a bed.
One day
I will sleep on a roof.

Crows of brooklyn
payphone goddess
Shakespeare:
old skinny
repeating thin silver words
beneath a sea shell
stolen by a 7 year old girl
in a red rag dress
from the burning contemporary
bookstore
tossing sweat thru
irrelevant back spine tunnel streets
featherless skulls
spitting sour chinese gin
from chimney blow hole
of their decaying dead thieving Fox
revolting death
to mother blessing decay
red blue green white
Fox yellow brown fur
swirling entwined like
melting crayons
on a stone militia crafted bench
researched developed by young Hispanic America Freedom wanderers
too hot
too cold to undress and ****
swirling together like cigar french ashes with
tongue hued wine
feverish coffee
thick as the bulging pregnant belly mother
giving
taking birth to a child
tossed carelessly into the Great Lakes
sipping on bad spoiled milk
digesting salt
hard boiled swan eggs
eating purity
chewing skunk
coughing industrial chemical gasoline
******* AIDS NYC bright non-existent lights
non-existent Allah
howling North Korea Communist war hymns
sing great religious protest
gunky toe nail'd feet
waltzing in the stomach of medieval
ballrooms chandelier not casted by
infinite diamonds
but by Jewish slaves
Islamic skins
Christian leather
Catholic molested brains children bones
deceased Langston Hughes
hung by Hughes spine and pupil
the size of texas
mass of the ****** female lips and knees
wearing color blind dress
shoes unfound
skin feet walking on rain drizzling beach
washed up skeleton sting ray
the skin unwrapped
like a christmas gift
Santa is starvation
licking the shoe polished long toes
of Death
riding the Downtown artificial lights
artificial scientist crafted classical
elevator time consuming Death songs

Jesus,
waking up,
to his body dry,
like that of Winter's rose and lips.

I am a knock on your door

You open up and I sneak in

Ill put your life on the market

Snarky teenagers to target a holiday demographic before fully developed  concepts begin

Your backpack and notepads house your sins
A man that's tall and gets caught in the calls of women to distract from the purpose  of ink pens

You're too ***** to be great

A ****** is a dead end

And a vortex for survivals' fate

Explorations of vanities' intellectual alternative gate

Dark shadows swirl their way into Cabrini Boulevard,
The pigeons rise to scatter as they slowly pass along,
The pretzel seller finds his eyes are misted, caught off-guard.
A subway busker starts to play a doleful Elvis song.

East-Eighty-Third is humming with a thousand urban dreams,
Cold fantasies unfold within the petals of the night;
September ghosts are set adrift on ectoplasmic streams,
With hosts of angels following, in garlands of white light.

Sleep soundly now, New York, let bitterness be washed away,
let sleep's dark poppies dissipate all agonies of mind.
Sentinel wings will guide your mourning dreams towards the day
when sanity will reign over the ways of humankind.

Believer of Dreams,
Determined Worker, Care-Giver,
Taxi-Rider and Street Skater;
Dusty, *****, noisy,
City that Never Sleeps

They tell me you are irritable, and I believe them, for the crowded streets and distracted people can get out of hand.
They tell me you are rude, and I answer: Yes, you are rude, and never give a care for anyone but yourself, yet I’d never have it any other way.
They tell me you are ignorant, and my reply is: Of course you are, for if you were not, why would things slip out of your sight, whether it is the homeless, starving people you care for, or for the attacks threatened most every day of our existence?

They see only irritability, and they fail to see the shining lights that never go off even in the darkest of nights, only shutting down for the unfortunate black-out that creeps up on you.
To the ones who say you’re rude, I reply: this is the place where the possibilities are endless; where those seeking shelter may rest and get on their feet, and those who wish to be entertained will be entertained.
Those who call out your ignorance have yet to see everything you offer, from jobs to entertainment to the feeling of hope one may get looking upon your gleaming towers, the home to much of the population.

Laughing the dusty, *****, noisy laughter of Youth. Proud to be a Believer of Dreams, Determined Worker, Care-Giver, Taxi-Rider and Street Skater.