Bedford

Bedford

Under the deceptive silence,
my thoughts/stale cardboard
chipping at the brink,
soft brie of exposure
rotting in the winter sun.

What I saw was the belly of Brooklyn,
bursting with 200 years of
sentiments and angst.
The rusted green pillars of the El,
like unwanted weeds leaving cracks
in the garden of Eden.
The impressionistic haze of
drunken lights swirling in
the milk of ecstasy/ shaman dance
in abandoned hotels/ among that pounding rhythm,
older than the first orgasmic sighs of liberty,
older than your original self
tracing back to first drops
of water on ancient seeds.

I roll my bones in underground steel &
vomit in chain kitchens.
Yellow-cab anxiety & fried grease
water from corrupt NYC water department,
quenching the thirst of millions.

Long hours in Trenton waiting
for trains, watching towers
swallowed by the red haze
of mechanical dusk.

I spend my time waiting for
machines to deliver me,
I spend my time absorbing the mystery
of dharma,
watching the play of this planet
with cool detachment.