escapes so there is
no back way out. I know
there is only the one way I can
understand you. I fall
into your gutter shadow trap. New York
is a train of steel fire.
It surges under us and coughs up steam. You know
there is a monkey living in the wires. You feel him
screaming there. You don't
ask why. I like the way you do that. New York
has hair made of neon.
It swings in garrish pendulums of style. You are
the funkmaster of my sky. Clouds are nice;
I like them red. You laugh at that;
the sound comes out of your eyes. You are
made of sunglasses, bikinis, blue jeans, and the occasional business suit. You do
not stop moving. Something bites me.
It is the knife in your record player. You are
a city woman. You keep a gun in your mouth and locks in your ears.
You go to the beach every weekend and eat the sun with your flesh. New York
is a lady, dancing. She doesn't know who
you are. She doesn't have to.
6/15/97, 6/16/97, 2/18/98, 2/20/98