#though - Hello Poetry

this trip homeward bound, riding the Q (subway) train from the messy grime of a never fully repossessed cesspool misnamed as Times Square, to our apartment near but yet far, a poem short & sweet was born complete, on an 8 minute fast track victory lap to periodic successful urban planning, that even and even though with and/of which no speedy highly disrespectful witch on a broomstick, nor a midnight traffickless auto trip, could ever hope to compete <> roses red, violets blue, all the passengers, revelry tired, both becostumed & be plained, Hallowed eve festivities again, lesser than expected, life be, eager awaited legal moment of crazy- -inness-inward-permissed, never quiet or as good as hoped, we tired riders all look worn from the aggregated infidelities of a a hoped-for missing-out happier life nearing midnight, the new immigrants, in subway platform patrolling, offer us candy for sale, their toddler children, beside them at this midnight hour, to drive home the desperate willingness to survive in a city oft hostile no longer eager to be beacon beckoning to the world, we rethink to our minded selves, our Statue of Liberty engraved invite: "Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door” <> we exit the underground rout(e) and the walk from subway to front door is another 8 minute travelogue segment, we cover the quarter mile on foot, covering a skimp of distance that our urban transport of many mileage covered in the same units of minutes in flyer miles <> late at night, we walk fast, with eyes wide, our lives to hide, from the risks of the unpredictable when the street parade of stragglers gives not the comfort of a rowdy crowdy, and the existence of crime is not entirely fabricated <Did> I offer short and sweet, Oh well I only misled, the trip 16 minutes and the poem in my head, complete emerged with minutiae attending et. al., in far far less mini~minutes, for it was a product of silent back labor, from first staggering screaming pain to successful unexpected birth that can take maybe minutes five, to mentally survive plus, physically complete the birth, introduce this poem to life. when the photos of my mined mind make images from negatives into words,: collect, sort and report the output picturesque now in colors black & white, of a trip from a Broadway theater through to a high rise building astride the river which gives me a theoretical cleaner space to breathe <> rather than short and sweet? I really reseed, redeed it as/is: *not too long and a tad bittersweet* a night in the life of the mixture of successes and failures of our troubled world in living technicolor, a few seconds of film of which one could fairly, and in fairness bless/write/curse/ each sight twice, uttering: ”mine eyes have seen the glories, as all come to look for America”

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Nov 7, 2024

Nov 7, 2024 at 7:14 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Even Though (Short & Sweet)

this trip homeward bound, riding the Q (subway) train from the messy grime of a never fully repossessed cesspool misnamed as Times Square, to our apartment near but yet far, a poem short & sweet was born complete, on an 8 minute fast track victory lap to periodic successful urban planning, that even and even though with and/of which no speedy highly disrespectful witch on a broomstick, nor a midnight traffickless auto trip, could ever hope to compete <> roses red, violets blue, all the passengers, revelry tired, both becostumed & be plained, Hallowed eve festivities again, lesser than expected, life be, eager awaited legal moment of crazy- -inness-inward-permissed, never quiet or as good as hoped, we tired riders all look worn from the aggregated infidelities of a a hoped-for missing-out happier life nearing midnight, the new immigrants, in subway platform patrolling, offer us candy for sale, their toddler children, beside them at this midnight hour, to drive home the desperate willingness to survive in a city oft hostile no longer eager to be beacon beckoning to the world, we rethink to our minded selves, our Statue of Liberty engraved invite: "Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door” <> we exit the underground rout(e) and the walk from subway to front door is another 8 minute travelogue segment, we cover the quarter mile on foot, covering a skimp of distance that our urban transport of many mileage covered in the same units of minutes in flyer miles <> late at night, we walk fast, with eyes wide, our lives to hide, from the risks of the unpredictable when the street parade of stragglers gives not the comfort of a rowdy crowdy, and the existence of crime is not entirely fabricated <Did> I offer short and sweet, Oh well I only misled, the trip 16 minutes and the poem in my head, complete emerged with minutiae attending et. al., in far far less mini~minutes, for it was a product of silent back labor, from first staggering screaming pain to successful unexpected birth that can take maybe minutes five, to mentally survive plus, physically complete the birth, introduce this poem to life. when the photos of my mined mind make images from negatives into words,: collect, sort and report the output picturesque now in colors black & white, of a trip from a Broadway theater through to a high rise building astride the river which gives me a theoretical cleaner space to breathe <> rather than short and sweet? I really reseed, redeed it as/is: *not too long and a tad bittersweet* a night in the life of the mixture of successes and failures of our troubled world in living technicolor, a few seconds of film of which one could fairly, and in fairness bless/write/curse/ each sight twice, uttering: ”mine eyes have seen the glories, as all come to look for America”