She rises in the Blue Ridge mist,
her Gothic presence quite tall,
spirits of the legendary Vanderbilts exist,
they whisper within the regal halls,
when humble slob me does pass-
I wish to mingle with these ghosts of high class.

Thirty years had passed me by
I was approaching fifty one
For my birthday I thought I would go
to New York and take my son
I'd been there once many years ago
When my boy was not yet born
With his mother gone, I thought it time
To go back there with my son
I checked the web and booked a room
In a hotel that looked real nice
It was just three blocks from Broadway
I guess I should have checked it twice
We flew on in from Michigan
We were set to see some games
We would also go to Broadway
And see some plays with some big names
I should have seen it coming
Problems arising from the start
Our plane was late in leaving
They had crashed the luggage cart
An hour to reload it
Got us off and in the air
With a strong tail wind behind us
The pilot said we'd soon be there
We landed at the airport
Waited forty minutes for our bags
You see, when they loaded us in Detroit
They forgot to fasten all our tags
We went outside to get a cab
We were almost to our stop
We would find the Biltmore Hotel
My young son and me...his pop
We told the taxi driver
To the Biltmore Hotel please
He said "Sir, are you certain"
"They've had bed bugs and there's fleas"
"I checked it on the internet"
"It looked nice and was cheap"
The driver said "OK Sir,"
"But, the Biltmore...it's a heap!"
I thought a bit, but said...."come on"
"It cannot be that bad"
But as we pulled of Broadway
The neighborhood looked quite sad
The street was dark and nondescript
there was no one to be found
Except for idle yelling
You could not hear a sound
Windows were all boarded up
The farther we went east
I thought, for thugs and hoodlums
this street would yield a feast
I thought the cabbie might be right
A new hotel we'd get
But, I still had not decided
Even though the streeted was quite the threat
The sign outside the hotel
Was burned out in some spots
But, I guess from our reaction
We both deserved what we had got
I told the cabbie, do not stop
Just floor it and we'll go
The sign outside the Biltmore
lit up as "BI T MO **"
I wasn't gonna stay there
We went back and made it quick
Just looking at the Biltomre
Well, it really made me sick
I learned one thing this trip
Next time, I'll call ahead
And won't book at the "BIT MO **"
For I might just wake up dead.

This bed is a comfort,
Much like the sounds of used water
flowing through ninety-year-old pipess,
Soothing me,
while the sounds of the city
are brooding inside of me,
and it’s the same.

It may be the pinnacle
of 1922, pre-collapse Providence,
but it’s the same.

It may be different,
but it’s just the same,
And that's just the way it is
So I cool this brain that's on the fritz
And do my best to keep sane.

The wallpaper is interactive
and there's an infinitude
of pigeons on a television screen
that is worth more than my apartment,
and it’s still the same.

The rug is soaked just the same,
the lingering odor of feet is the same,
and I can feel all the ghosts of guests
from the last century trying to,
dying to speak to me
and through me,
and it’s the same.

The way the sun rises makes me feel like
I have no cause to be awake or asleep,
but I’m awake,
and it’s the same.

The stress of lost cigarettes,
and the blame of untapped digresses into unnecessary depths
is the same.

The way I’m viewing the start
of this day that hasn't yet
is the same,

and it’s a shame.

You do you and I’ll do me;
but if you do me I’ll do you one better.
I’ll set you free or buy you a sweater
or some other **** I think you’d like.
Maybe I’ll just keep sitting here
on this oversized armchair next to Jer,
and continue wondering
what you are up to,
what you are thinking,
how many blinks you are blinking,
how often your neurons are linking.
I’m thinking,
and I’m thinking,
but still the numbers don't add up.
I'm sinking and shrinking and
I’m getting real fed up
with feeding the schlupp
inside my chest with pinings for you;
for the way you look in my favorite dress,
for the way you find beauty in every mess,
for the way you should be here and not there,
or I the reverse,
but you’re there and I’m here
and it feels like I’m cursed,
like I'm Jesus Christ left in the manger
to die of thirst and exposure.
Im a twenty-year-dead motor struggling to turn over,
or maybe just a dude with a storm in his head
that’s getting steadily older
and rapidly sober,
who's missing a shoulder to press against,
and lacking defense against
A soul that grows perpetually colder.