life times & love

New York never greeted me politely

while I was considered a tourist I went through the

Holland Tunnel & now that I go there with no map

& a clue I venture through the Lincoln where the lights

make me dizzy and I crave the polluted sunlight that says

“welcome to Manhattan,” without a smile; but just a gas mask

that hides its face of skyscrapers and street performers

I stood & listened to them perform

an old Beethoven quite blind in one eye & lop sided on his

old Yamaha keyboard he played the symphonies the way they were

written with one tired hand and a broken heart

he finished, this old Beethoven with a fling of his wrist & bowed his

head, kissing a black key politely since it was their first date

I clap ferociously and whisper bravo

when the music is done I have no choice where to go

but to a sea of business men thinking of their Penelope

they all wear the same thing, the black suit except one

may be grey or blue. in their hand they carry the briefcase

it holds their papers & a small photo of their family that they

hang in their office, where they make petty small talk

and sip on black coffee

I fled to Amsterdam after to meet a friend

to eat cheap Chinese and drink free

white wine if we pleased. we talked of

old friends we missed, of music and homosexuals

of cell phones and of Broadway

after the fortune cookies were read,

and the bill was paid the night was over

while all the rest of Manhattan slipped on shoes

swiped their Metro Card and rode through the subways

I secretly smoked small cigars

outside of class when I stood near abandoned buildings

trying to take everything in,

the wind slapping me in the face while the warm smell

from the cart nearby made my mouth water.

it was time to go home, back to Jersey

across the river since I used up all my spare change

buying this lighter to help with my veiled habit,

I went to school the next day, we talked of the Village, and

how the artists laid here, and thrived here pointing their fingers

at some old building where the painters were going to collaborate,

and where Ginsberg would meet up with a new love.

they all fled to Brooklyn, to the classic streets in Flatbush

emptying the Greenwich of strivers, and filling it with

celebrities and adult shops. this wasn’t in the brochure,

this wasn’t what I was expecting, this New York

with its hand tied behind its back while the pizza burned

in the brick oven. I’m not angry with you, and nor am I

disappointed with all your avenues and taxi cabs

I just wanted to be warned for once,

that maybe, I would be getting into something

unexpected