Sympathetic Inflections

I am no controlled spirit

Untamed and overgrown

My emotions can be so

Easily swung

Not the words that I am

Proud of

Not in pride am I congested

When I am over zealous

My heart can be to little

Protected

How is it that the same tricks

With new names

Can catch a heart beat

All the same

If I could only go under cover

Into my own deepest detections

Pull out the weakest of

Sympathetic

Inflections

So rather than pick up

The pieces from hopes unmet

I could let my heart down easy

Lay it to rest gentle

While it’s quiet on the set

However my heart will wrestle me

At every turn

Up and down

It’s always involved

Every choice

All around

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The Great Pressure

How is the brain

Wired in such a way

That even simple tasks

Under great pressure

Can seem so unachievable

So distant

Out of control

How is it that ideas

Thoughts and motions

Can move my head

In evening rest

To stay awake all night

To turn left and right

So irritable the mind can be

When the pressure is turned high

On me

The Tolling Bells in Brooklyn

The bells gently toll along Brooklyn Streets

Reminding us

That this city celebrates and grieves

Lives and breathes

From my studio

You hear the city life come to light

Lighting the sky

Filling the rooms

Walking down Manhattan Avenue

The fog wears heavy on the Manhattan Skyline

Tucked away from view

A sleepy afternoon

The memories of my life

Will be created here

Not in Paris or Tokyo

Rather just east of the Hudson

Learning to go from walking to runnin’

All under the ringing bells

of Brooklyn

A Night in Brooklyn

“I will FUCKING KILL YOU”

The words bellow from the belly

Of the loosely dressed man

On Manhattan Ave

Across from Manhattan Inn

Enough vigor and resolute

To carry the words to my own

Windowsill

I crept to the window

The man seemed unwell

Ill

I couldn’t make it out the clear

Words strung about a 100 bill

“Why don’t you come over here”

“See who the real man is”

The street lights illuminate his

Contorted face

I pull back from the window screen

He glances in my direction

As he walks towards Manhattan Ave.

And Nassau intersection

I am fully engaged at this point

This rage within this man

Has the whole neighborhood up at

2 AM

Cars rumble past blurring

What was said

What was heard

I could only faintly here but a word

All this rage and anger

Over a C note

On that note I better get back to bed

Whatever he had said

It was life in the form of entertainment

I am not upset from the loss of sleep

Just tired

Whatever kept that man up

Had really shook him

On just another night

In Brooklyn

A Kiss of Rushing Waves

The webs we weave

The dreams we chase

Unchaste and yet true

At first we were revered as outcasts

Not sure of the way

Decisions would see us through

We made a life in the city

Tried to keep our heads

Above the rushing waves

Staved off by a blissful kiss

Sea myst

Over our eyes

We saw the world

Around which we realized

That staying put

Was no option

No higher calling

Even when the walls

The dream itself

Was falling

We see it through

Another night spent

Late night chatter

Even thought nothing was really

The matter

We see it through

Me and you

The Commodity of Space

Thank God for public transportation

This revelation

Is one of the finest gems

The beauty of the capital of the nation

We are able to move swiftly

Through station

Feet connected to floors

Cold and eternally soaked

To the floorboards of the railcars

A collective quiet continuum

Running from face to face

Some disinterested

Wearing discontent well on their face

Underneath the city

There is a currency of space

Being given and taken

Awarded and mistaken

The sole private goal

Of a seat on a reasonable Subway

Some would just rather pay

Because there is always the lingering

Unreasonable chance

That the cart is filled in advance

But we stagger on

With the commidty of space low

Take it slow

Get on the train

Pull away,

Go

Cabbage and The Uncomfort of Life

I didn’t want to do it

I guess I kind of had to do it

Shit we do to make it through

Renting out half the space

The rat race isn’t even

Half way through

The smell of cabbage in the morning

Warning that the uncomfort of life

Is seeping through

It wild the way we hustle

People bustle

Plan for the next month

Once again feeling uncomfortable

But I guess in a city

Where rules are only enforced

Rather than exist

This small task I complete

To make it through the month

Cause if not I call it quits

And back on the road I’ll be

With only half my wits

I’m not running some grand hotel

Not even a bed and breakfast

Just trying to make time with no roomates pass

The hosting seemed to be the only option

In a city

Where the Attorney General

Might be hot for me

But I guess I’m damned if I do

Damned if I don’t

It’s New York City

The only answer I can not give

Is

I won’t

Ring the Brownstones

“You do this every God damn time!”

Exclaimed the man

Hands half thrown in the air

While he ripped the door of the old van

Open

“Fucking Bullshit – that is what it is!”

His head full of dark hair slightly covered

With a Yankees hat

Strewn to the right

The short stout man

Flung the back door of the transport van

Wide open

Hoping to rip it from the hinges

Anger, rage, discontent, dismayed

His voice rang up through the brownstones

Like a choral chamber in a church

He disappeared into the van

Throwing out both one more explicative

Cargo equipment

His friend walked drooped at the shoulders

Slowly recovering the bulls rage thrown

“I’ll tell them what I am going to do”

I wipe my eyes for the first time

It is 7 AM on Manhattan Ave.

This is not unusual

But rather more intense than not

I pull my face close to the glass

Feeling the winter cold briefly pass

My nose

Must be cold out there I think

Unfortunate soul

Throwing out the kitchen sink

But all on a good Tuesday morning in Brooklyn

Now

Back to work

Simple Flake

The time it takes

For one simple flake

To make its way

Down the streets of New York

Falling carelessly to the ground

Over the Empire State

Shoveling below

Cracking sound

Filling the streets with heavy

Steady and steady

Falling so hard

I can barely make out

One World Trade

In a storm for the ages

Barren isles of food in the store

We bear down the hatches

And get ready

For just a little more

Complicated Maneuvers

There it is

Spilled my coffee again

In a rush

To make it out

Into the thin

Brittle cold air

Of a New York morning

I reset myself

I should give them some forewarning

Grab some paper towel

I’m already 10 minutes late

If the G is on time that is

My mind begins to race

Such a simple morning

Now turns into complicated maneuvers

I watch the bright white paper towels

Turn to a more rusted out brown

Take a sip of my coffee

Then set it down

In the trash and out the door

I hear the train horn

I run down the stairs

In the old turnstile

With the attendant half asleep

Make the train

Only by a couple of feet