My reflection is a stranger’s mirror, blurred and shifting.
Maybe she’s someone I used to know,
or a shadow of who I’m slowly becoming.
A ghost caught between past and future.
Uncontrollable, like a storm rising without warning.
Unrecognizable, as if seen through cracked glass.
Angry flames flicker behind tired eyes,
broken fragments scattered across a fragile soul,
fearful whispers echoing in the doubts that live within.
Somewhere in that space between my head and my heart.
Unattached and in a daze - modernly caged -
Forever stuck beneath the fracture surface,
beneath the storm’s restless breath.
a quiet tremble hums like distant thunder,
a pulse that does not ask for reason,
nor demands understanding.
The space where shadows transform into light,
where silence bends into sound,
where finding yourself isn’t about the arrival or escape,
?but the endless unfolding.
A soft unraveling of edges,
a dance without form — a song without a melody,
where I am both lost and found,
and the mirror’s surface is not a boundary,
but an open door,
inviting me into the unknown.
One way to tell a tourist
In the New York City scene
Is if someone on a corner waits
Until the light turns green.
For natives look both ways, of course,
And if no traffic’s there,
They cross against the light or else
Mid-block, without a care.
This always was illegal, yet
We locals would insist
That the law was so ignored it seemed
It didn’t quite exist.
Well, now that’s true, for since last week
Jaywalking is allowed,
So all you tourists, take a chance
And join the New York crowd.
Their meeting, first time, was merry.
The flip from her lips, bit airy.
Her drink could sink ships.
She takes sip and quips,
“Would you like to eat my cherry?”
Ever snorted cocaine?
I watched some partiers snort cocaine last night,
in a dark, Manhattan nightclub corner celebration.
But I’ve never crossed that line. The white line.
When offered some, with unctuous camaraderie,
I shrugged and said, “No, sorry, I’m allergic.”
What are you supposed to say, “Crack is whack,”
or “I prefer my coke with rum and ice?”
The white line. I don’t cross the line.
It’s not the first time, of course, I saw more drugs
in high school than I have at Yale. I’ve mostly seen
“study drugs,” there, like provigil, adderall and alza (concerta).
Do they give students an advantage? I don’t know, maybe.
Call me a boxcut or a squarepants, but my parents are doctors,
and I just don’t cross those lines - those little white lines.
.
.
Webster: Unctuous: “an obvious, fake friendliness”
Slang: ‘boxcut’ ot ‘squarepants’ = a square, a no fun party-pooper
*I use artistic license for colors: for instance, adderall can be a blue, orange or yellow pill.
Manhattan
By LoLa
The neverending cascade of looming city skylines
Towering strangers captures her gaze and her hands
Attempts to lift the veil from abandoned timelines
Leaves her breathless where A Phantom Hurricane stands
Relenting to the light from the cracks in her heart
Beating to frequencies of screams in the city
A lifeless stare where frenetic signals depart
Swelling with the blood of lost souls in harmony
Expressing a love lost through the pain in her eyes
A thousand miles away, lie stories of their past
Approaching lights of distant shores will ask her, "WHY"?
Why memories and matching tattoos never seem to last
Forgotten daydreams of nameless faces in the crowd
Forgetting days when She lost her grip on the wheel
Stranded in streets where silent thoughts were not allowed
Breathing in the weight of grief She has yet to feel
As waves of rain proceed sunshine profanities
Honest words lie, with false displays of bravado
Smouldering signal fires revealing fallacy
Moments where they’re free from confines of pine below
Merciless movement
Atonal antipathy
Nonsensical noise
clarinet crescendo
soaring above
the collided cityscape
Harried hordes
Aggravating acrimony
Terrifying tumult
piano playing
plaintively over
the primal phantasmagoria
Torrid traffic
Alienated aliens
Nihilistic neon
soaring strings
singing through
the striking scenery
Big Apple Bullies
It was a very, humid summer day.
Too hot to any god to pray.
So being hot, tired, hungry and all~
We decided to followed AOC's call.
When hungry, she said, "go steal".
So we followed her advice with great zeal.
We took our empty orange Nike boxes.
To fill with bakery goodies~ we are such
clever foxes.
Tonight, some pizza would be so good.
But what boxes are best~ ones of wood?
This will be a great summer, we cheer?
While forlorn store owners, oh well, may
shed tears.
New York City is now our town!
Businesses run by stupid working clowns.
Those ignoramuses out to earn a living?
Such dunces, it's from them we are stealing,
as there is no policing!
July 18, 2020
6:15pm PST
Eight million people living here
Yet on my morning walk,
Deserted streets provided
Not a thing at which to gawk.
Behind each window there were souls
In various routines –
Asleep or in the shower
Or engaged in breakfast scenes.
I marveled at the emptiness
In such a busy place
Where no one moseys, but proceeds
At a frenetic pace.
Yet not in early morning
For it might as well have been
Any tiny U.S. city
As the huge one I was in.
The sirens of Manhattan
Make a sound we always hear,
Alerting all pedestrians
And traffic to stay clear.
It’s background noise that city folk
Don’t pay attention to,
The urban version of a field
Of cows all saying, “Moo.”
It doesn’t matter if the sound’s
From ambulance or police
Or fire engine; in a minute,
Urgency will cease.
New Yorkers will not raise their heads
To note the siren’s screech
Unless it stops right where they are,
A safety zone-type breach.
Then curiosity kicks in
And nosiness runs riot
Although, by then, the sirens have
Quite naturally, gone quiet.
Man From Manhattan
There once was a man from Manhattan
Whose piggy bank his Dad did fatten
He had tiny hands
For such a large man
But that never kept him from grabbing
By Bill MacEachern
There is a young woman I met near Times Square;
She's five-foot-eleven with lovely brown hair.
We were both buying tickets at the kiosk that's there
For a show at the Palace that starred Richard Gere.
So she told me she dances, but that landing a gig
There on Broadway's not easy; Competition is big.
And she moves through the crowds with a natural grace;
Watching her's such a pleasure that I must hide my face.
But her style, you know, can scarcely compare
To those twinkle-ing eyes, and what they hold there.
It's to bask in her presence that's the purest of joy;
And I feel like nothing but a lost little boy.
But my feelings for her are not puppy love
Though she seems like an angel sent from above.
But, alas, I'm a pauper, who can't pay the rent
And she merits a man who's much more like a gent.
So I'll have to be happy with watching her dance;
As a husband with family I haven't a chance.
If I only foresaw that I'd meet her one day
My own life would have gone a much different way.
Apartments are expensive
With an extra monthly fee
For maintenance, which I can
Understand, to a degree.
But in an advertisement
For a condo that’s for sale,
A factor was included
That would make some people bail.
Along with monthly maintenance,
The purchasers would pay
Nine hundred for utilities
But, more outrageous, they
Would have to shell out, with no choice,
(Get set for Oh, my goshing!)
A fee of almost fifty bucks
For monthly window washing!
Perhaps it’s people just like me
Who prompted such expenses.
My windows, lacking such demands,
Display the consequences.
Manhattan
Missus
Slaying
The masses
With class
And glasses
Never giving up
With a sash
That slashes
As the steely tones
of a jazz organist
sounds throughout the coffee shop
I sit here and reflect
and my mind wanders to Middle Earth and Barsoom
My vision are so powerful
that I must write them down
in order to save myself
My pen moves along the paper
since i wish to share
my inner joy
with all of you out there in the darkness
Let light enter your life
Soon enough you will be in a place
with no light or sound
So friends - take out your pens and laptops
Let the world know how you feel
"The time is short and the task is great"
As it says in the Ethics of the Fathers
Don’t Lower Manhattan,
Keep your heads held high.
Don’t have any truck with evil and
Let West Side show your best side.
We all come to you,
We’ll still come to you.
We know you can show us,
The city with a pace and a grace
That will get you through this outrage.
Don’t alter your sidewalk geography,
Don’t falter on the altar of exclusion or
Illusion of a yet more secure existence
By locking all the locks and freezing your liberty.
For those who remain, it’s the struggle
To balance freedom, and tame
The terror and the tantrums of insane
Acts by dangerous people.
For those who have gone, you will long
Be remembered in the city that neither sleeps,
Nor forgets.
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