I don’t know why I keep coming down here
Into the dark abyss of these tunnels.
It’s like something’s calling out to me
Guiding my feet without my permission
Like I’m just along for the ride.

Water drips down from the lower level of the 82nd street station—
Downtown B and C train.
I’m in a cave with dripping stalactites
But instead of awe and wonder
All I’m bracing myself for
Is absolute collapse.

The train roars in
Ba Dum Ba Dum Ba Dum
Slowly making its way to a stop
With a whine of its wheels locking into place
And a screech of the doors opening, protesting all the way.

I know I shouldn’t get inside
Should walk the twenty blocks
In sub-zero temperatures
Where at least the light will shine—
But something beckons me from the darkness.

As the train slowly begins to move
I see the red and blue lights waiting, watching, outside the window
The apparent heterochromia of the monster that lives and breathes and is these tunnels.

I’m suddenly sure that I’ll never return.

Somewhere
in the middle of New York
a white-and-blue,
Pacific island:

...
sitting on itself,
prim and low
as if waiting for someone important, but
not wanting to seem so.

sitting on itself,
as if waiting for someone,
many boats go by
(no, not that one...)
(not that one, either...)

sitting on itself,
small and proper
proper and small...
(**** is wet)

sitting on itself...
I wonder How long
has he been sitting there like that,
won't his
feet be cold?
**** be wet?

The lonely island...

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

sit close but
not too close, as if
friends.
in the past few lives but,
not in this one (yet)

he wishes someone would come and sit beside him

quietly for a moment
then turn to him and say,
with sparkling Pacific angel eyes
turn to him and say,

"The world needs you, Steve."

And Steve would continue staring off into the distant, blue horizon where
there's not much, save for a
distant, blue horizon
...

but pigeons are not gulls,
gulls are not pigeons.

and the Hudson River
is 315 miles long.

"My name isn't Steve."

sprinting hand in hand down narrow streets
running around unsuspecting bystanders and passerbyers
laughs echoing off the skyscrapers, louder than all the taxi cabs and mixed up conversations of the city
chasing the pink sunset that reflects in golden hues off of the concrete jungle

walking hand in hand around the edges of the lakes in central park
dancing on subway platforms to street performers unique melodies
falling into attraction in between musty lps in dimly lit record shops hidden away in greenwich
falling in love in vacant coffee shops or on apartment building rooftops

the city is where nostalgia takes a form of reality and where chaos disguises itself as a form of surreal serenity

There’s something about big cities.
Something I can’t explain well.
Something I can’t put into words.
But I’ll try.

I like being lost.
I like being in the middle of a busy crowd
A busy street, cool autumn breeze
I like to think everything here has a story.

No, sorry. Everyone here has a story.
And yes, everything too.
Three buildings and the tallest one in the middle
A park, a church, a public library and a school.

I like to think about people and their stories.
A nun, a teenage mom, an engineer.
A doctor, a student, a wedding coordinator.
A housewife, a park ranger, a future architect.

I want to live in a city this big
I want to wake up in a loft somewhere in these buildings
I love the thought of people and the stories they possess
I also love the diversity, each difference.

And as I was walking in the middle of a busy crowd
Beneath skyscrapers
Realizations hit me and just like everyone else
And everything, I, too, have a story to tell.

I think of him when its raining and the weather is gloomy and the clouds come in the surround me just like he did for a short, short while.

I imagine he is sitting somewhere in New York right now drinking some awful Gin and Tonic drink , writing something about some girl in a bar.

Or he's walking with his jacket high up over his neck day dreaming of his long lost Juliet or maybe he's scheming something more like Macbeth.

I like to think he thinks of me from time to time, the girl he sent poems to on Valentines Day, the girl he talked about loving the ocean more than life.

I know it's a bit narcissistic and a bit conceited but I like to think he know's I think of him from time to time.

When La Vie En Rose comes on and when I'm walking down the freshly rained on streets humming a tune.

When I am alone in my room contemplating how I couldn't make things work with good people or when I re read those poems I keep hidden away in my closet.

I imagine he's sitting in New York at some trendy, dive bar, making friends with the bartender telling stories about his life.

I imagine he's writing something about a girl he's currently in love with and the features that makes him swoon because one day he will give those poems to her for Valentines day as well.

I imagine that the day he finds the Juliet to his Romeo- he won't need to think of the girl whose too far away and in love with the ocean anymore.

Surrounded by the lake, no soaking clothes glued to my skin
Just the ice cold water hugging me tightly.
The sound of the small lake waves lapping against the tiny, brown beach
Aside from my splashing and the occasional birds in the woods
Was the only thing that pierced the quiet of a silent, cloudy day.
The air was cold but the water was colder,
A frigid blanket hiding whatever lurked below.
The joy on my face was undeniable
Despite hidden under the tendrils of the loose strands of my ******* hair.
The New York mountain air combined with the lake scent
Despite the cold July afternoon
Undeniably smelled like summer.
Freshwater smells different than saltwater,
Like sugar cookies baking instead of chocolate chip.
And the taste of those freshwater summer sugar cookies
Are a taste I refuse to forget.

AMERICA HAS HAD ANOTHER
HORRIFIC TERRORISM ATTACK
A UTE PLOUGHED INTO PEOPLE
OUR FREEDOM NOW WE
CAN NEVER GET BACK



HOW IS A PERSONS MIND CHANGED
TO BRING THIS VICIOUS HATRED ON US
INNOCENT LIVES ARE ALWAYS LOST
DESTRUCTION AND CARNAGE WITHOUT FUSS



THE WORLD HAS LOST ITS INNOCENCE
AND THE HEART AND SOUL OF MAN
THESE MONSTERS WHO COMMIT THESE CRIMES
SHOULD FEEL THE WRATH OF GODS HAND



SO ALL WE DO NOW IS WAIT
FOR THE NEST EXPLOSIVE CRIME
I HOPE WE CAN STOP THIS HURT
JUST IN THE NICK OF TIME

Music has the ability to strip us raw.
Regardless of color or creed we are connected through the crescendos that expose our shared vulnerabilities.