I
West 168th and Haven,
on a ninth floor balcony,
i watched the sun ignite
the moon lighting fire
to the hudson river.
as it set, i was unable
to control my fantasies
of hanging upside down from the
george washington bridge,
watching the empire state
building dig a hole
in the sky now new ground.


II
her room, a palindrome.
we began where
we ended last,
my tongue drawing
pictures on the
canvas of her neck,
she moans,

"why do you feel so good?"

but this heated moment
would be frozen by the
winds of doubt, i, trapped
in a platonic purgatory--
preferring hell's lonliness--
her legs closed before
the sun rose


III
Central Park West
borders an endless
garden of darknees
in the night.
the wealthy fill
their rooms with light
and books and silence.
my camera runs out of
film. the hike
to East 53rd and 3rd
avenue allows for
mental snapshots of
the plaza hotel and
more taxis than one
block can hold. tammany
hall's open bar
gives my mind enough
spin to glide uptown.
every woman's face molds
into one, and i fall in love
with the thought of kissing
them.


IV
times square is
a whirlpool
for street artists.
movie theatre--empire--
michael moore opens eyes
to the other side of
the truth, the question
becomes "who wants to see?"
a long drag from a square
had my mind walking circles
around West 42nd.
i actually preferred 5th Ave.


V
goodbyes are
empty deaths
full of possibly
living, again.

in new york, again,
i shall live,
swallowing big apples
whole.



***********************************


i love you all

"when my love comes to see me it’s
just a little like music,a
little more like curving colour(say
orange)
against silence,or darkness…" -e.e. cummings


"we are accidents waiting to happen" -radiohead

"Poetry is a kind of distilled insinuation. It’s a way of expanding and talking around an idea or a question. Sometimes, more actually gets said through such a technique than a full frontal assault." -Yusef Komunyakaa

"The Black Artist's role in America is to aid in the destruction of America as he knows it. His role is to report and reflect so precisely the nature of the society, and of himself in that society, that other men will be moved by the exactness of his rendering and, if they are black men, grow strong through this moving, having seen their own strength, and weakness; and if they are white men, tremble, curse, and go mad, because they will be drenched with the filth of their evil."

-Amiri Baraka, from "State/meant" in the essay, "Home"

"My love is my soul's imagination. How do I love thee?...Imagine." -Saul Williams

***********************************
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=500290931


myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings