Bricks,
piled high and mortared.
Slot canyon sunset blotches
in set patterns,
half-offset building blocks
in towering structures.
Concrete,
stone crushed and diffused,
set and weighted, solid.
From earl gray to brutalist gray,
stretching out in cascading pathways,
brain of the city.
Sewers.
Waste and refuse
in piles and clumps.
Small animals coalesce
in shit-covered homes
in trash-drenched places.
Rats.
Wrathful wastrels.
Eaters of filth.
Mammalian intelligence swims
behind beady eyes and pink nose.
To be trusted.
I sit in the cracked-vinyl green chair of a sushi restaurant. The server does not speak English and her eyes wrinkle when she smiles. I put on a massive pair of black headphones and listen to music best described as the artistic interpretation of poor anger management and a drum set making desperate love to a bass guitar. I stare out the window, panes of streaky glass holding the frost of a deep freeze snap at bay. I take out my laptop and type.
Snow.
Stark-white on dirty streets.
Swimming on air currents
to rest on trash and detritus.
Rimming the edges of parking lots
in gravel-spackled piles.
Pigs.
Armed and armored,
dark blue and bright white.
Polished jackboots
and eyes like a hawk,
minority spotters and phallic justiciars.
Mist.
Alacritically needed,
shrouding and disfiguring.
Hot taste of the underground,
humidifier sewer grates.
Cinematic flair on demand.
Cars.
Spewing exhaust,
screaming mufflers.
The taste of antifreeze on the wind,
rubber squealing
past a graffitti'd stop sign.
The drive to my uncle's funeral is short, but it's one of the longest moments I've held in my heart. It stings and drips with venom, anticipation making sweat pop up on my bruised and aching back. Music clicks on again, angry young freaks with mohawks and half nude skin. White-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, I try to keep myself from crying again. I fail. I weep, tears hot and wet crawling down cheeks. I remember the first time I beat him at chess.
Streetlights.
Guardians against the dark,
ample bright streaks against
brown-red bricks.
The dark night sky, starless,
sprinkled with points of light.
Bridges.
Massive behemoths,
maintained and carefully examined.
Painted like ceramic beauties.
Swaying gently
in the angry wind.
Lawns.
Mixed with refuse and crabgrass.
Some left to dry,
some made fresh,
hewn with the soft tilling
of a garden freshly sown.
Graveyards.
Momentary lapses
in the noise.
Echoing silence in
miniature stone glyphs.
Worship of the dead.
I walk. I feel cobbles and bricks and flat cement. I can smell a smorgasbord of delicacies and foods. I see a man dancing on cardboard. I can taste the grit in the air. I can hear the joyous cries of kids as they race home from school. I feel my dog jolt forward and laugh. I hear the train to NYC thunder into the station.
I light a joint and let the smoke slowly float out across Main Street, curling in the fog of the early morning, moisture dripping from everything as the tender shoots of summer spring out from the ground. The river rages, just barely kept at bay.
I feel at home.