Going to New York – poem by Elias Christian

Sleepless on a bus to New York City,

staring slow and simple out the window

at dirty roadstops and bucolic pre-city America,

running together under my weighted eyes, which are blue.

 

Abruptly, it materializes:

brownstone and brick to

clean, concretic Brooklyn.

Enter Angelic New York,

both a Myth and a memory,

across the river in Chelsea,

on the corner of 14th and 8th,

where displaced, we converge,

like drops of water

on an unbalanced board,

into a bright real place.

 

Here reconvening with an old soul friend

watching the city grow out of Central Park together

in the rain, sinking into old thoughts, old reincarnations

of the same old dreams and revelations –

from concrete to heartbeat to the oil stains and the fossils –

I hear singing in Central Park.

 

The floating voice of some karmic Indian folk player

traveling down thru forgotten roads in the Catskills to the Great City

on his way across the continent to the Fountain of Youth, blues from

a set of smoky lungs, suddenly transfigured on the New Yorkian doorstep.

It recalls an age of miracles, the city with its secrets.

 

Myself I paid $5 for a five minute poem

by a five minute poet in a fast food joint,

Myself I paid $8 for some peace from

a false Buddhist over in Manhattan,

but I felt my spirit gladden

when I woke up new in New York City

to a bleak blue morning, thinking,

 

I had a fuzzy dream of someone I love, in Delirious New York, fall to me

like soft light.

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