You know us. You see us, hear us, smell us, feel us everyday... we're the ones who can't tear our eyes from you in Union Square Park at four 'o clock on a Tuesday afternoon, observationally glued to your essence in that way that ought to scuff the shoes of your solar plexus, but it doesn't. We're the regulars at your smoky dive regaling you with drunken tales of sex and sorrow, filling the loopholes in your long-pondered theories with five-line factuals you can't figure out why you'd never figured out before. Money is, money isn't, but you can afford it; we are the bartenders taking care of you, neat or on the rocks. We know when this day has beaten you down, and we kick the asses of the prototype succubi of this cutthroat town. This New York belongs to us.
We are everywhere... the Bowery bums searching for agape in the eyes of strangers, lovers out too late at night, the ignorant muses of the previously writers'-blocked. The previously writers'-blocked. We're the Times Square cabbies who sparkle like headlights off the Hudson when a surprising native flags us down. We don't mesh with the predictable madness of St. Mark's; you don't either, and we smile at you. We are the uptown moguls and Wall Street suits lost in the Village, purchasing lone cigarettes from the pierced poets, unknowingly funding the cup of coffee that fuels them to write The Revelation. We are the broken revolutionaries of the Lower East Side; we know when our jade must stay subdued so as not to break a little bit of you. We steal eye contact on the subway and let you eavesdrop, unintentional. You will wonder how Williamsburg ruined Emily as you crawl into bed, wishing you hadn't turned off at 29th.
We are all anonymous here, wondering if this is Babylon or just another misunderstanding. You will, too. We are pieces of God in plaid in makeup bankrupt on drugs in love, and we peek into your dreams, leading you on and leaving you grinning as you wake to the onomatopoeic coincidissonance of the fire sirens and glaring alarm clocks. You spend all day wondering if tonight when you finally sleep we might consummate.
Ours is a ceremony of upward glances, glittering concrete and flicked cigarette ash, silent consecrations on the city streets. Foul words, fine whiskey... we are worth our saintly weight in stories and sin.
Find us and we'll let you in.