I am here I am back in NYC again. 

I woke this day to the release of bus exhaust

and toddler cries, amazed that I slept, batted

a beam of squeezed city sun from my eye and sat up.

It’s time I was a reliable conductor of 

these cascading passengers named each 

different types of anxieties one by one

by one thousand if the train leaves the 

station too early or uptown rather 

than down leaving the cavity 

of my wordless mouth in its place

before I can step onto the platform

the brainpan vacated like-

You: the starving portraitist sitting outside the Shubert

 

You just

spilt art on your clothes

lifted your palms, twitching,

reading ruddy black, white

swathing your baffled body

 

inhaled colors’ smells

While paralyzed 

 

How The Hyperreal smells like leather, reminiscent,

An inside-out glove, Muscle drained of red–

Realized how you contract, molting fermented opaques

Caricature frame evaporates, vaporized by rubbernecks, eyeballs

Cocooned in ink, papier-Mache`d, amateur art, peering hard,

To atrophy your rigid frame.

 

You, vacant, rickety, intoxicated by the cold and wet

Leaning on cement

Elastically embracing your own bones, your being, oddly well

Watching passengers smear by on NY time   on charbroiled paths

 

You

swingless in the indigo rain

A broken pendulum, An unrolled marble-