From the porch of my new apartment
I can see the World Trade Center
And the Empire State Building
Through a hole in the trees
That I’m sure will not be there come April and the rains
Life will get robust and block my view
I’ll step around or move closer
And think again
My feet are solid,
Standing on another man’s ceiling
There are no more angels resting on the clouds
And the sky is the same as its always been
*
The rain comes down in straight lines.
The streets bathe on brown slush and torn boots. I, having savored this
particular struggle and having dealt to it the weight and gravity
it deserves, and having written it down as one for the ages,
Can only nod in agreement as it shrugs the busses along. They the busses
sag to the curb at two block intervals. A tightly wound wire runs
through the back and out the front of everyone pacing these streets.
These streets wonder why so many have deferred to them the honor of deciding:
which insights were promises
in what way this block concrete, asphalt, and yellow paint became soil
for so many expectations, so much flesh, a sponge for so much
blood and so many dreams,
which lines were arrows, where and to whom they pointed,
which eyes mattered
and at what point did a sea of faces become anything but release from a burden
an affirmation
*
Yes, the streets have me again and have welcomed me home
and have understood my fight. They show me a home
that is intimidating, joyful, and familiar.
It’s familiar partly because of the view, either straight ahead or over my shoulder,
not blind and not paranoid, not anxious, not afraid
It’s familiar partly because I knew I’d see it all along and anyway. On the pulse or
tucked away, keeping the promise in line of sight, keep my watch from a
different kind of roof
hand in armpit
cigarette at waist
It’s true, only dream and memory have remained, and it’s not so different than what
I anticipated, it’s like I was never gone from here not because it’s exactly
the same but precisely because it’s gone on without me
It’s familiar because it’s a memory of want, of desire, of the rush of blood for cozy
college sophomore women giggling like hiccoughs in powder gray sweatshirts
shorts holding sweet alcoholic beverages of primary colors perfectly trimmed brown hair ponytailed under a baseball cap
cheeks like pillows
and precisely because the
kiss and the first finger on skin is the orgasmic rush of an underground railroad
car doing 60 under the East River, and
It’s familiar because I know I’ve learned these lessons before, and these streets they
have been nothing but a means to an end, not an excuse but an explanation,
and it’s familiar because as these streets provide me a chance to hold an
upright mind a body met
a pressure received and returned
They are an essential part of a situation which allows me to achieve this
it’s a different route
but the mission remains the same
I am in the 110th and Broadway stop on the One Nine
I am pieced together, I am obsession and I am home
I have transferred I am being sold candy and batteries and the train is driving
in time with the gearshift pulse of quarters and nickels in a coffee cup
that depicts a blue Athens, one two, one two,
I see toothpicks in teeth, flowers, leather pants,
hats like mine
boxed up musical instruments
these streets our ceiling
now faces I’ll never see again
never asked for
never could live without
I touch my hand to a starving mind and the world is changed forever