BasilLvoff Aug 8
Drizzle, mizzle, mizzle, drizzle, drip.
Boiling coffee, gray newspaper, sip.
Boring neighbors upstairs stomp and cough.
In New York, no one’s a theosoph.

Drip, drop, drizzle, drip, drop, drizzle, splash.
Puddles, hurdles, honking, stinky trash.
And “excuse me! Sorry! Getting off?!”
The sky is dull and gray like a damp cloth.

But lo! And don’t get blind! Midst shouts of fear
And joyful cries,
With cherubs at his side,
Lightening the skies,
Dazzling to sight
Westwards he dashes, the radiant charioteer.
V Exeter Jul 31
When was it
rose overhead
became End All
Be All
The Direction?
New Yorkers
have it right.
Get in many,
many fights.
In that way,
learn to solve.
On Portland
bricks, our
fixes dissolve,
at the ease of
social demand.
Was this a master plan?
It's played out,
without a hitch,
& everyone honest
is suddenly the
evil bitch.
Their songs call him out
To the watery Sound
Beyond the long island;
Past high-rise apartments
Packed like sardines;
Past graffiti-smeared strip malls,
along rumbling roadways
Littered with mattresses,
And occasional gated green enclaves.

He sails out
To cavort with the
Humpbacked and Fin,
With dolphins and seals
That live out of sight
Of the swimmer, the surfer,
The lover of jet skis, of yachts
And of gritty brown beaches.

He knows them by sight
and he names them by scars:
There’s ‘Hammerhead Right’
The little harbor seal,
Marked with a rip
behind her right ear.
Or ‘Enterprise,’ who carries
A gash shaped like the ship
Under his torn gray front flipper.

He researches, records,
And brings out the tourist
to see these soft mammals
Who suckle their young
In their alien home
At the salty wet rim
Of the sprawling, concreted land.

He researches, records,
he names, and he counts.
But how they were scarred,
Or how they live on,
Remain locked
in their watery
Inspired by an article in the New York Times about Dr. Arthur Kopelman, who runs the Coastal Research Education Society of Long Island
Charlie Jul 2
And so the song flows -
a messy trace of barbiturate haze,
the song flows,
tinged with a red-eyed, cathartic
sort of sparkle about it in the dark,
like the backalley streetlamps by my window
at one in the morning.

July 1st-
I take a step outside, climb to the roof.
My eyes swell from the sunlight,
glasses steam up from the heat.
I have no need for lifting my ass off these sheets anymore but to write.
Manhattan rooftop, why did you have to betray me?
There was a time when
you were the glistening silvertoned backdrop to all of my surreptitious loves
as I sat on you,
idly humming jazz,
peacefully watch the go-and-come
of the synagogue pouring into the
streets below,
pitifully bemused
at the concept of dejection.
You once gave me a view of opportunity,
and ever-alert, always-foreseeing eyes that could have seen all the way to the buildings of Stamford.
Now I'm eighteen and terribly myopic.

What at all at this point is to exist
with implacable certainty?

Manhattan rooftop,
Tell me that
solipsism is the universal truth,
then I will not feel as alone.
Brooke P Jun 27
Sometimes I catch myself
wrapped up in the moments
when we were making up
my feet on your dash
going somewhere fast
all this frozen in my past -
the wind pounding through me
breathing in the warm air
always taking the scenic route.

I remember the small details
like your dimples
when a smile spread across your face
and the gap in your teeth
that I wished would stay.
You sang me to sleep
with that voice you hated
but it sounded like honey
to my ears, softly driving me
into your arms.

I've tried to erase
the memories of you
but that's just not something I can do
because every breeze of every season
smells like you
and everything we made each other do.
I know I was to blame
when you didn't feel the same,
and of course, I'm ashamed
of my past self
and maybe you are too.
But distance tricked us,
and I long for being a kid
slowly lowering my eyelids
as we drove past the power grids.
Irene J Jun 27
I met you across the subway,
we took a walk at the Central Park.
We went to a $1 pizza restaurant on our first date.
And spend the rest of our date at The Met.
We moved in together in an apartment in Tribeca.
And we go to work in Manhattan.

But one day on a sunset,
you took me to The Empire State building
and propose to me.
And we got married at the City Hall.
This was very random, well, in fact, I imagine this happening to me lol.
The (win)  d-y
Pop_ crackle
Crunchy Eye
On you punches
Like Philly
Steaks the first
The Prince
comes second
second best friend
Visa to the rescue

Chicago Bears
Goldilocks my pizza
Whole lotta love
So windy who
could hear!!
Led Zeppelin

Chicago bands

Windy- Indie
Me- in
Superbowl Beans
largest city

Her lips but first
The second he spoke
I felt cursed

So frick-in cold
Do you even know
what time is it?
What crime was hit
Can Can
Watch it


Dresses flew up
Getting a
second wind

The death of a cold
What a pity
Windy__ city

was so

I'm 25 the 6th day
What a pair
What four?
Now it's
24 hours whiskey sours
North Star witchery
Chicago second
wings gallery

Oh! 4th of July
All flags what
a bona

Saturday in the park
The dark train Sienna
  settled in I met my
Second wife
Windy- chances
what do you
see with
your life?
I was gone with the wind
The lefty player
Second to none
mission to the right

The Buffy slayer
I need a break

His Wildfire*
Imagine all the people
John Lennon could change
a temple
To be someones

I give you a
Just make you
damn record
Chicago is the fun city but I turned it around how more windy our words can just remain. But wait not hearing a boom sound taking the next train second chances not everybody is on time.
they would
poach breakfast
so sound
in their
living room
that had
eaten this
croissant with
an ear
in place
till this
rap was
down then
after their
own plates
with this
illustrious swag
breakfast for champions
we sink half an inch every year
"soon, we'll be up to our ears
in water"

not a creature of fury, just of habit
the moon pulls her to churning, to crashing.
hotter water temper tantrums
rush the brine into our basements
soaking scrapbooks in salt
until it crystallizes faces

and yet i cannot blame the marsh

for reclaiming what was never ours
and taking even what was as penance.
but i refuse to condemn us
for shaping shorelines into lives
because things are so much clearer
when they turn with the tides.
we’ll grow gills in time,

we have to.

the ones who stay on land
could never handle shifting sands
don’t know we cling onto the inlet
with white-knuckled hands.
they never grew from buried roots,
seeds are just flotsam in the sea
so they’ll call Frank O’Toole crazy
when he can’t bring himself to leave.
This poem is a reaction to a clip used in a John Oliver segment on flooding (here it is for context: ). In it, he was quick to make fun of Frank O' Toole, a man from Broad Channel, New York who had his house destroyed by Hurricane Sandy and rebuilt it in the same spot, despite constant flooding, because he couldn't see himself in any other neighborhood. Growing up in a similarly close-knit (and similarly threatened) neighborhood fairly close to Broad Channel, I sympathized with his determination to stay right where he is. Shoutout to you, Frank.
AvengingPoet Mar 20
New York, I won’t come home
Not even if you call
This arcade is on fire
And I laugh and laugh

The blistering cold winters
That took away my soul
In this suburban hell hole
Filled with computerized cynics.

Please don't even call
I won’t pick it up
I never answer the phone anyhow
Why would this be any different?

It surely won’t be.
It surely won’t be.

New York, I won’t come home.
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