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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.
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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
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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
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