In the rapture of you, and words and sound,
I have found something that has been missing.

And in essence, your presence has turned on what was lost,
And at what cost as we speak of travesties and trivialities.

In some dormant want, there is music,
And there is joy.

Coming as only some boy, we play.

And you understood before my finger could lay claim,
You knew before my I laid my head down,
That these were the last words.

The Holy Ghost hath returned in some juvenile moment of redemptive nothing.
And, I ask so naively for an explanation to hold on to,
But is not heeded, not needed or necessary.

We have reached some thing, some personal salvation in the vain absence of you.
Of him.
Of this, and that nativity.

An incessant ringing in my ears, we have struck gold,
A life on hold, that which has found the right.

In awe I am of you.

Filing away in unconscious need.

And throwing ourselves into this, into demise so pure.

Hollowed eyes in the company of few,
Too perfect to corrupt you.

Too much to allow you, we have reached the breach of contract,
In this inconsequential contact,
Of eyes and hands and hearts.

An unreachable peak,
Something amasses from dirt-
From your hands that touch, that grace.

In that coherent thought, I beg for that which I am not above.

As the grace of this washes over,
And over,
And over.

And over and over.

April Fools

You are but a projection of me,
As to say, one is gone.
With some divine right, in exile from Eden,
We choose to write the words of back-washed relief.
In some simultaneous reflection of the naïve light through cloud shot skies-
We move to the sound of a bell,
The call for the next original line.

And if by some projection of you,
On some white-washed wall,
We find some post-modern debt- paying forward our subject,
And counting our loses,
Then, perhaps, in your worthy epilogue we find sense,
Because ‘we’ is me, and ‘you’ never were.

On display, in the window by the bay,
We draw the maps, etched in plaster,
One road to another, from beginning to no end,
In one swift unconscious move towards a meeting point,
By an apple tree,
We see that there is no Me.

The causality of the non-art no movement,
Like the hole we fell down once-
To the place I want you in there with me and perhaps, in the nude.
Because the non-me chooses to revolt in the name of absence.

I am but some poorly constructed contour,
Hung on the wall of your projection,
Your on going film of glory and good intentions,
We find pedistals for the who needs both a home and a box,
Something transient, on the road that we mapped,
To the harbor, to Spain.
And, we will run into the law abiding fantasy marked as freedom,
Marketed to who?
Habitually buying the tickets to fortune.

Vying for fame, to make a name for yourself,
When you can’t even recall that which you were given,
Your name up in lights,
We find ourselves symptoms.

Bed Stuy Free of Charge

Sitting while the ladies walk and congeal into predetermined clusters of talk. Banter back-and-forth with an old tinge of jazz and wrapped in rap, a modern imbalance of nostalgia and real time. A perch like the pigeons, which allows for the violation of some common understanding, urging one not to stare nor inquire- seated and defiant in a shameless guise- but only a white girl from the Boston sub-urban sector in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn. Immobile in an alien world, ass imprinted with a seven-minute cigarette break on the grated escape.
Two stories up the white cinder-block building, aged with something akin to the beach-chair crew- an elderly collective of eight regulars, the dark, male senior participants who rest daily in their beach recliners playing with vices, hounds as they name themselves, parked at the base of the building on Throop. Wrinkled, beer stained and darker with age, made simply more beautiful by virtue of interest- both building and man, some edifying paradigm of the urban design. A rot-iron pedestal, rusting and probably ineffective at this point, a structure with intent to save lives, or used to drop your trash into the miniscule and already cracked trash-cans below- some gravity promoted basketball variation. It is the escape from a stuffy apartment when Matt is cooking chicken as though he were on television, or Josh is writing and needs peace, or when the guest needs a cigarette to reflect. It is an excuse to mask the Brooklyn o-zone and mistake it for fresh air, and it is an excuse to stare at the habitat so foreign to a suburban visitor- or a child whose ignorance’s are immediately displayed and marked on her forehead, intensified with every expression of inquiry.
Seated on the C-line en route to the apartment from Manhattan with a backpack and a sleeping bag in tow, a visitor waits apprehensively for the Kingston-Throop stop, never quite sure whether if she took the right train. Eyes wander, but this is not the Boston she grew up with, it is New York and eye contact is more of a violation than a passive interaction and the unspoken rule says, “back the fuck off,” and aggressively returns glares. It is not an assumption, or a grand exaggeration of the truth from the perspective of a foreigner, or the Bostonian- this is the reality, because she will keep doing it unintentionally until someone barks. Saved by the bell and the stop is announced, the train moves to a halt and everyone waiting files off.
Street level and things are weird. It is ten o’clock p.m. and there are taxis that look like cop cars wait on corners where groups of people gather and exchange hands, cigarettes or looks. The visitor stops to light a cigarette and makes a phone call to her destination, they tell her to not walk on the left side of Throop on the way down to the apartment. Saturday Night Fever blasts the bass from ‘souped’ up tin-can cars and fuzz alarms scream, careening around corners to attend to something. As she walks, condoms are dropped on the sidewalk to make a bread crumb trail to any door on the block and voices from dark stoops ask for a butt, or a light, or some warm coinage from the pockets of a poor college student- impoverished compared to what, and she feels the slap on her own hand.
 It was never Kansas, but where ever we are is not Manhattan, it is not Boston, or Needham, or a cozy campus in Western Massachusetts.  
A block away from the mock-marble apartment building, a corner store advertises basic junk food, cigarettes, and eggs. The foreigner goes inside and puts her dinner on the counter. The cashier laughs while he is ringing up a buck fifty, “You just move here, girl?” Laughter from both parties- but, no, just visiting friends. Laughter from his side, because she is serious, “Yeah, I thought so. Sweetness, you should run on home-“ Handing over the bag of chips, the door, the night and the absence of the overly grimy florescent lighting of the shop swallowed the ‘Sweetness’ into the streets of an unknown walk. A nighttime world of a neighborhood tainted by movie scenes of gang boys with their cuts and colors and painted street-crawlers. Whether or not this is a reality, the apartment sounded ideal, and she heeded the clerk’s advice as best she could- Boston was a far way away.
Five-fifty Throop Street is not much of a ‘hood’ by cliché definition, but for the visitor’s hosts, this was a far cry from the Jewish haven of the Greater Boston suburbs. A place rich in mural graffiti art, a Biggie memorial down the way, and a series of cracked out neighbors. It is a place for rich observation for those who hail from out of town, but it is a realm in which one does not poke their oblivious and curious heads into other peoples’ business. Staring is not caring, and it should be assumed that the bark not worse than the bite, the assumption should always be equivalence and curiosity will kill the cat who looses his head.
But there is a place where the view is removed enough to go unnoticed, a respite amidst the chaotic world inside a cramped, low-rent apartment and the sidewalk life. The fire escape, only a window lift and curtain shift away. Cold and rusted and intimate, black and blue to such a point that it blends into the nighttime, the smoky air. The fire escape, where seven minutes of burning time allows for the perpetuation of some romantic and grungy view of the city, the neighborhood, our lives- allowing such a screen for the display of the literal ebbs and flows of the human behavior. The nighttime is unsolved, it is intensified and loud- fast paced and hazy with cars moving too fast and dominated by the male element. We hear stories that ward of gentrification and paint an awful picture, however filled with life the moment may really be; but in the opposing twelve hours- in the daylight, so familiar and charming, women collect with their children after church on the Sunday morning stoop steps, dog walkers and shop keepers welcome the business day or some glaring city sun. The sound is different, the light, the time and the voice are different and from the looming catwalk of ethereal power, or maybe more humbly a sanctuary for the foreigner, the lonely, the view of the real-life ‘show’ is the most beautiful performance in New York. Free of charge. Protected from the previously established and unalterable notions we have- she had- safe from the shit and the ash and the hazardous bikes on the sidewalks, there is a trip to be had in being the voyeur. An unadulterated joy in peeking in on the everything, anonymously- the escape is the perpetuation of all urban attributes, and it ignites something in the self-alienated foreigner. It ignites something in the feel of the borough, the neighborhood, the community and there is emotion, and there is sight beyond that which we keep to ourselves on the subway.
The same clerk walks back to his apartment while the visitor smokes with one of her hosts a couple of stories up. By chance, while several cars pass and other pedestrians knock shoulders, he looks up and looks until he recognizes her face. He laughs, nods and proceeds, shaking his head while he walks, well aware of the fact that the three of them had shared a rare moment of the mutual violation of an intimate look in. One, a man in meditation following a day of hard work, on his feet and ringing up useless and seemingly essential trinkets of processed crap. The other, a long separated pair of friends, reconnecting in their private space, hanging above the most public of streets- but eyes met, the moment was enjoyed and the example was set. This was the perch of a passive observer, for the creative mind too interested in everyone else’s. 
In the morning, the one-night veteran meets the clerk at the corner store to buy pancake mix and a carton of eggs. He chuckles and calls her champ as she recounts watching the across the street neighbor from the fire escape putting a cat in a trash can, which he promptly brought back into his apartment building. He says he’s seen if before and raps an eloquent anecdote about him and his baby daughter during their nightly moments of fresh air, together, on their fire escape. Him, holding her, cherishing her and simultaneously watching a series of cop cars running after a fleeing buddy, or watching subtle narcotic exchanges from the limbs of a concrete tree, or singing her to sleep while the homeless jazz-rat plays his saxophone on the streets below when he thinks no one else is listening. Nothing but a jovial look and tears in his eyes, the clerk sends her off, back to her perch, telling her to enjoy the idea of being above violation or fear, suspended above the crime or the nightly vexations and temptations. “Run on home, girl, Boston misses you.”