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.