A questa Serra

Suspended on a mile of steel

the night of the twelfth of June of the year two thousand and six

I’ve come to realize that the distance between Truth 




and human  understanding

is as long as the Brooklyn Bridge.

I’m proud of this stretch (as Mayakovsky had once been),

straddling the boroughs on its wires, 

with nothing that’s non-manufactured in sight. 

This piece of steel is my daily bread.

Isn’t that what you’ d have me believe, Richard?

And, admittedly, I’m love with your sheering edges and your massive 




weights,

your strapping, proud volumes.

And their surface -oh the surface!- abrasive, primitive, and coarse.

So, would you have me scrape my smooth face against it?

Would devotion require blood, like with you-know-whom?

How appropriate that your slabs bleed too, that they get scuffed

and etched upon, graffiti-ed, spat, and pissed upon.

Denounced in demeaning disgrace.

For you should know, Richard,

that genius is never quiet.

And that the Brooklyn Bridge may be long,

but not quite long enough

to sustain us into eternity.

Escape

What a perfect evening for torture!

Step
The night over Avenue A smells of heat
Pause
Loudspeaking pavements throb with music,
my pores rythmically open to its
wetness,
whetting my appetite.
Smile
Addictions are hard to forgo.

New step
I try to recall
step
what it feels like to be in your presence:
Pause.
The paralysing entirety of you.

New step
Your face resonates
step
the promise that
step
with you
I will be finally undone.
Stop.

That, henceforth
Look up. Stars!
my hand in writing
and my brush in painting
will be guided.
New step
That you will awake within me
a
step
a
step
an eternal, self-transcending, universal (un)consciousness;
Pause.
The seat of godliness.

Hot hot hot hot heat.

You're an illusion.

Quickening steps
1st St
Faster
2nd. 3rd.
Faster
Faster
Break into run
10th St

I try to scrap you clean off my mind
but like a bloodied bandage you cling to my wound
sinking your teeth in it
Run for your life
11th 12th streets
devouring newly formed tissues
Run
13th
making it bleed anew whenever I try to rip you right off it.
14th.
Exhale. Catch breath. Turn left.

What is the price of my release?

Towards the crowds. Towards Union Sq. Towards oblivion.

Take this land, this island of Manhattan.
step, step, step,
run
It's yours by right, by wrong, by virtue of existence.
inhale, exhale, sweat
run
Take me. Selfless yet victorious in abandon.
sprint
Humble, in your presence
final traffic light turning red,
cross streat
jump over barrier
lose myself into the crowd

You can't find me here.

Spotted Pig

A warm back
through window of
Spotted Pig Resto
on
Greenwich St

Golden afternoon
spiced olives
and
trout -smoked-
cold cold white wine
wooden stools with
soft worn cushions

Celebrating possibilities

The man's hand
sensually on her knees
her legs
the small of her back
She smiles.
- lovers-
Her perfectly manicured toenails
- so NYC

Time passes fully.
It blossoms
into the red brick brownstones

Ah. Creme Catalane
and espresso. Black.
Strong.
Et voila.
He kisses her fully, deeply.
She leans against his outstretched palm
extending
underneath the earlobe
to the back of her head.

Time blossoms fully.

Into my faded charcoaled jeans
I step out
take to the afternoon streets
smooth of wine
full of options
ripe in my knowledge of
attending possibilities.

Time broadens and tilts deliciously sideways.

splittings

Were you to leave,
I’d fly to New York
And walk the streets we might have walked at dawn
Breathing the stuffy sick subway mist ascending from the grilles
As if to fill my lungs with your dead skin cells.

Were you to leave,
I’d close my eyes and remain unmoving
Among thousands of people measuring in motion
The aching seconds that’d tick your life away from me.
In my icy-cold stillness, hibernating in full sensual awareness,
The knowledge of loss ripe in my womb-
Our child’s non-existence scarring my insides.

Were you to leave,
I’d sit at crossroads
Taking in the city’s energy
Communicating with, making love to, devouring Absence
Transforming the instantaneous into the eternal,
As can be done only in times like these

And then I’d go and buy myself a new bound leather phone book
Write you disconnected number down
And pretend I can still call it


And if my body were to be found bloated
Floating in the Hudson
It’s you they’d try to call
Your number being my single identifying feature