They aren’t men

For years,

like a recurring dream,

I’d find myself drunk in a New York City bar,

wishing I’d stayed home,

to build something,

no one would pay for,

in silence.

Even today,

I think of giving it all up,

to drift free in a low rent wilderness,

Where the best women won’t have sex.

These pangs visit at night.

But I still wake up and grind,

for a small piece,

of all the disassembled empires,

that chaos has handed down,

since many lines before my Grandfather.

I am running after,

a dying lady,

in a dirty dress.

Friends,

and enemies,

on either side of me,

nourished by the applause.

What does it mean to be a man?

Men arrive when the fleeting longings of their nights,

grow big enough,

to fill their days.

Love hate New York

I saw a shitty apartment, in a nowhere part of town, that was priced too high.

It’s cold.

No one looks you in the eye. I walked everywhere, but didn’t really get anywhere.

There are papers all over my floor, my California grip slipping.

But I stopped for carry out on Hudson and talked to a Brazilian dancer playing the part of a waitress. She had a man’s name tattooed on the back of her neck. The outline of a navy blue heart on her wrist.

Told me “all the jobs are headed to L.A. Here, it’s just Broadway.”

She wants to leave New York too.

Not me.

I’m good til’ the morning.