Grand Central Station
It's raining in New York and for that matter it might as well be raining everywhere.
Water drips from the sky like so many events gone past,
and sludging through these abandoned streets of new york with people crowded in loneliness I think of you bob kaufman.
I think of a time before my own where people maybe were different; maybe there were less machines
less walking machines less buying machines less eye averting machines and excuse me machines less I'm sorry did I break your oily connections? less I apologize if I halted the intense conundrum that must be dissolving in your lifelike brain.
(though more rain)
I seek an escape from the water and walking and with my mind cold and tired and feet stubborn deep in cowboyboot ache I seek shelter.
I set an ambush and sit in wait wondering what I'm trying to catch. I ponder where is this jungle?
Am I in a museum? A street? A train station? But what is the difference?
I look into the distance and see fragrant new york cityscapes with little ants running to and fro before my eyes checking their watches am I late for the train? Should I call Amelia now?
And as I watch I see their old europeans framed in cage light temperature exact ancient ancestors of cities now dreamscapes for the dead who speak latin.
Things pass before my eyes like so many machines so many framed people in temperature light wearing yankees caps so many drops of rain distorting a puddle image so much that one drop hardly changes a thing
like so many events gone past I can hardly keep up can hardly keep consciousness if I don't sleep at some point I may start dreaming awake I may start speaking latin I may soon join the ranks of the dead
I may soon start falling from the sky like cats and dogs and unwanted material possessions like water because if I stay here any longer in this breaking world with broken form all I can see myself getting is older and wetter and more tired.
I close my eyes and listen to events crash into pavement puddles.