Hudson to my right
nyc to my left
leaves up above
grass under my sneakers
perfect amount of chill the air
not a chilly chill
just a chill sorta chill
tea in right hand
apple in left hand
no! bagel in left hand
forget the apple
take a bite
take a sip
look at the view
&repeat

Quiet
in that suspenseful kind of way.
Only two people in sight.
Well, three...
if you count the man sleeping
on the bench.
I'm scared
but hopeful
that may way home will appear soon.
Crickets are
cricketing
quite loudly
in fact.
It's as if there are billions of crickets
flooding the train station
But they are no where to be found
somehow.
Where do all the crickets go?
Where are they hiding?
Are there really as many
as it sounds like there are?
My way home should be here soon...
...cricket cricket...
...cricket cricket...
...cricket cricket...
Ladies and gentlemen,
the next Brooklyn bound
is one stop away.

Good Morning.
Feeling a sleepy kind of
peaceful today.
I am finding a calmness in
not knowing.
For the first time (in quite some time)
I don't know what I'm
looking for...
But I do have clues about
where to find it.
warmer warmer...
It all of a sudden feels like so much is out there and I want to grab it all at once, but I can only carry
one thing at a time...
Otherwise it's too heavy
to bring with me
on the subway.

Cold wonderings ***** at my back, and I
slide my hand, with a palm heated from another night,
across my bare skin.
I’m learning to love myself when no one else can,
and at least, for a moment,
forget whose door I just walked out of.

Let me be light, let me be light tonight.
Let this path be my air, my destination a distant sight.
Consider a rooftop, where I can see the pale moon,
hiding between the Twin Towers’ ghosts.
Maybe it can goad this artificial light
out of my cold
tile home.

Let me be light, let me be light tonight.
Let my heart be as hollow as the shining white knight.
This concrete, it screams—what song does it sing?
I am tired of sleeping with burnt eyes and lost dreams.

My shoes feel so heavy in my hand,
but the gravel has numbed my bare feet’s skin,
and I whisper to you, my poet in hand,
let me be light, let me be light for you.

Back home, its all slow
Back home, its so passive
Back home, its peaceful
Back home it's calm

Here, its rush hour every second
Here, I'm home sick
Here, its not peaceful

Yet, has history
Yet has new things
Yet different laws
Yet a beautiful skyline

Even though it's not Colorado,
I love New York

Violets rage
with indigo pulses
beneath the shadows
of your parents' porch;
Spitting purple, but
soaking the rainbow
from whatever light
granted by the sun.

The man without legs
thinks he still has them,
for when he glances around
everyone else still does.
And when he ***** in his
share of breath,
its just as much as before.
Even when the clanking cup
in his hand begs,
to subway riders as cold
as the train floor,
he thinks not of his lost legs
but of all the loss.