NYC

in a room in Manhattan

up off 34th Street

writing away the desperation

and hustle I heard

from the window

I hardly used my radio

the sounds from down there

were plenty

the litanies of anger, hurry,

frustration, gridlock

and after the first week I started

wearing headphones when I wrote

but I was always aware

of the window

I was young and

I had never seen so many assholes

trying to be important

-walking quickly

black clothes

gripping briefcases

or paintings

or portfolios

or black umbrellas

I watched the urchins move

and I wanted to pick

them off

one by one

from the window

I didn’t work anywhere at the time

I didn’t want to

sometimes I would

take the train to Brooklyn

and walk around the Jews

and I would anger one here

and there

by asking where the nearest

bar was

or where I could score

a bag of

good shit

or where I could find

a cheap homosexual

or the nearest

strip club

the look of hatred satisfied me

and when I wasn’t doing

that

I would take a taxi around the

city for a few miles

and jump out and run

but the best was

when I would drive

my smoking engine

downtown in the traffic

doing 15 miles an hour

in the left lane, cutting off

taxi cabs and long

black limousines

and SUVs.

The truth was I hated New York City

that so-called energy

and lack of courtesy

of basic convenience

I pulled some alright

pages out of that place

Dostoevsky wrote that a city can be intentional

I felt

no intent from Manhattan

it didn’t have me trapped

there like so many others

and for that the city just gave me

a hard stare

it was tolerant

with me

it could not break me

because

I knew it was

only

joking.