SOme NYC rantings.... been a while... so the saying goes.
Thoughts on the Eve of an Ecological Catastrophe - MP 2010
I leaned over on some late night train heading past
Times Square with another failed bombing haunting the passengers;
And I say…
“NYC is so fucking beautiful when you have a soundtrack in your ears.”
Nod agree not sure his body language says I might be crazy.
Not to advocate horrible shut-off individualization
Among these large crowds already vacant from interaction,
I mean to mitigate the vision of despair I see when the sounds
Of the city flood my face and their waves are filthy oil tides on the Gulf Coast,
Saturating me with the crude film of this modern magic place which feels in stasis,
Or even degradation as the three letter news crosses the nation;
With the images of every disaster and real tragedy unfolding and attacking,
Walking alone, they hide without isolation.
The sounds pounding in my ears make it all terrible and beautiful,
And incredibly real and painful,
Each movement becomes a symphony chord.
Some constant crescendo creating chaos and we cant stop;
As the passer-bys and change advocates and sleeping homeless cry
And the suits and blazers and summer dresses and expensive shoes vie
And the children-traders and bomb-makers in king size comfort lie.
Critical fading thought displaced by this rat race space and just in case
We’re not catching up,
We can look the part folded pleated pans to get a head-start,
Not that we ought to want to go forward toward some protected future
With tragedy and farce returning in haunting steps
Nothing on the right and there is such an empty left.
The mystics creep the sidewalk squares and offer up a interpretation
To this sideshow amazement;
It is a work of art with the players all quiet and busy and stumbling home
In the last hours before sunrise,
To begin tomorrow anew.
It’s monotone gray everyday and every way you move
Leaves you standing still on some street corner,
Some rooftop or concrete capital church scraping the sky,
And without a story or history everything becomes a god damn mystery,
We’re not here nor there for thing-accumulation and refuse piles abound!
We move forward like sound!
Impermanent and reminding of the eternal even as we fade!
These new media connections and conversations provide pictures to
All who participate in the tapestry related to me,
And I thank them all for their part even before they start
With that smile or hello or bump goodbye lets disappear tomorrow
They all cry of the endless possibilities and the harsh realities which
Grip and drag us back to some evolving square one cycle,
We grin and we want out of here please and thank you
For the refrain in the warm summer rain or even in quiet crying disdain,
After the pain is gone the world is still wrong and every bit as beautiful.
I leaned over on some late night train heading past
Times Square with another failed bombing haunting the passengers;
And I say…
“NYC is so fucking beautiful when you have a soundtrack in your ears.”
Nod agree not sure his body language says I might be crazy.
Not to advocate horrible shut-off individualization
Among these large crowds already vacant from interaction,
I mean to mitigate the vision of despair I see when the sounds
Of the city flood my face and their waves are filthy oil tides on the Gulf Coast,
Saturating me with the crude film of this modern magic place which feels in stasis,
Or even degradation as the three letter news crosses the nation;
With the images of every disaster and real tragedy unfolding and attacking,
Walking alone, they hide without isolation.
The sounds pounding in my ears make it all terrible and beautiful,
And incredibly real and painful,
Each movement becomes a symphony chord.
Some constant crescendo creating chaos and we cant stop;
As the passer-bys and change advocates and sleeping homeless cry
And the suits and blazers and summer dresses and expensive shoes vie
And the children-traders and bomb-makers in king size comfort lie.
Critical fading thought displaced by this rat race space and just in case
We’re not catching up,
We can look the part folded pleated pans to get a head-start,
Not that we ought to want to go forward toward some protected future
With tragedy and farce returning in haunting steps
Nothing on the right and there is such an empty left.
The mystics creep the sidewalk squares and offer up a interpretation
To this sideshow amazement;
It is a work of art with the players all quiet and busy and stumbling home
In the last hours before sunrise,
To begin tomorrow anew.
It’s monotone gray everyday and every way you move
Leaves you standing still on some street corner,
Some rooftop or concrete capital church scraping the sky,
And without a story or history everything becomes a god damn mystery,
We’re not here nor there for thing-accumulation and refuse piles abound!
We move forward like sound!
Impermanent and reminding of the eternal even as we fade!
These new media connections and conversations provide pictures to
All who participate in the tapestry related to me,
And I thank them all for their part even before they start
With that smile or hello or bump goodbye lets disappear tomorrow
They all cry of the endless possibilities and the harsh realities which
Grip and drag us back to some evolving square one cycle,
We grin and we want out of here please and thank you
For the refrain in the warm summer rain or even in quiet crying disdain,
After the pain is gone the world is still wrong and every bit as beautiful.