it took me two years to get back
on a train to the lower east side
back to the starting ground

but when i arrived this morning
in our little corner of this place
it felt something like a ghost town

so many faces fluttered by
but not a single one i recognized
i felt like a stranger in my hometown

i left to chase my dreams of permanence
but now nostalgia and memories ring aloud
and all of our old apartments have been torn down

what is left for my wandering heart?
not you, not home, nothing else in this town so
i bought a ticket for the next train, and i'm leaving now

alone on the city streets
I don’t know what to do
The roar of cars just all I meet  
Which makes me feel so blue
The setting sun
The sky that runs
The clouds that shrouds the moon
All that’s left is in my head
a peaceful little tune

Summer ice box, bolted to the block like a hustler’s ambition.
King of the corner. Hand to hand to every family man or,
A fiends fever dream. Metal mattress for the meek.
Chill spot on the streets,
For a late-night congregation of labeled freaks;
To people passing by at least.
Neighborhood staple. A practicing painters graffiti canvas.
Crowned with empty coffee cups turned bank accounts for the beggar.
Bent from stray bullets, but never broken.
Stalwart, abandoned bodegas
But the ice box remains.
The signature of a city that speeds away, but
Will never change.

full of silence
emptied of song
terrible in beauty
and glorious

in her step, traversing
every rainbowed bridge
and leaping, leaping,
glorious in her dance

Isn't it weird how fast I've fallen?
I already miss your spirit, sunshine.
To be frank, wherever I'm going
I feel the urge to be back all the time

I miss museums and ancient buildings,
The river, the grass and the trees.
I miss the way I was usually feeling
While I was walking down your streets.

I don't honestly know how it happened,
How quickly you captured my heart,
But I could've never imagined
That I'd miss Roma so hard

I sit on the seat of a silent hill, watching hope stripped bare
Like tender flesh ripped from the bone. Where do I go from here?
The words in this world, are poisoned with pain.
Even the ink on this wrinkled page decays, like
Receding waterways that turn rivers
Into mass graves. Every frontier turns to a last bastion.
No decadence can dress the dead. Sunken souls
Weighed down by boots of lead. Work and worship.
Open plains become a purgatory for the horseless.

Alone on the pedestrian bypass bridge,
breathing summer sunset,
I swirl the stubby balsa spoon on my tongue
as the evening commute buzzes beneath my feet,

and wonder: how did I miss this all before?
how
wind washes bare arms,
world still
soft round
the sharp edges;
how ivy lush covers thickly the brick walls over,
and brazen broad-leafed bushes
crowd onto cobblestone street corners, and
wistful weeds cushion cement sidewalk cracks;

how when the sun’s rays are blades from the horizon,
our city lights twinkle tight but
tap dance so light on the retina
in the vignetted  
sky of creamsicles and cotton candy;
and how
the frozen chocolate chips
break brittle between my teeth
and the cookie-dough bite’s so smooth
and still so tooth-melting sweet

There is a world outside my window
it screams and rushes and roars  
Relentlessly in motion
a ceaseless current
of to and from
coming and going (“Wynberg !?”)
that batters against my walls
Even the trees
thrash about
in an angry hurried cadence
“You must not keep still!” everything shouts
Yet I remain
in stasis
cut off from the boundless energy
that proudly moves on and on and on