Something so unsettling about standing on the
L and seeing so much flash with so much dirt under the surface. Look real close
at Jerry Stockbrokers fingernails and you might find catholic heaven (if your
name is Junior and you’re 15), or hell if you’re his wife. Pedro wants his
place in line back and pretends he can’t understand a word you say. Until you
tell him how bad his breathe stinks and then he wants you to make love to six
inches of shiny steel.
Languages babble like a tin can stuck on the heel of
your work boot. The ones you wore around the world…twice. Old friends who never
let you down, they'll always be there at daybreak. Even if they reek of old
fish and something less savory, you can put them in another room. But the
voices of the people around you… all white noise. And they leave the stink of
unwashed masses that remind you of rotting onions and the gangrene your
grandma-ma had in her big toe.
Ah the city… Like an old girlfriend who still carries
your class ring, she never forgot you. She’ll spread her pock marked thighs and
breathe that cloudy cigarette smoke right in your face. She’ll make love to you
with a torrid desperation born of your own insipid need to feel something,
anything. Your city. My city.
