I respond to you

I respond to you

Where the scattered elder oaks drizzled in the city's grid boast their yellow glowing

vibrance before their demise

Where the faces of civilians are gentle, honest, and familiar while they, and I,

sip our coffee and transition out of our groggy sleep states

I respond to you

Now

Right now

and now

and now

Where the stanzas tell tales of infinite life, plain life, shown through the barking of a

wolf or the flight of the goose or the wind's whisper we hear if only we can rid the

grinding gears of thought

Where the words show nothing but love and love of existence

When I swear I love you and we all love you

but not you

but your love for everything and all

While sleeping...

I was travelling with some friends by way of mass transit. Subway to be exact. The vessel was fast, mean, rumbling, and dim-lit. Smelled like stale sweat and unwashed garments. Mid-day was at a close. The early afternoon was now taking on that more mature sun-shined orange glow, like a family vacation photograph from the 1970's. Anyway, the day was dying. Nothing was strange. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing besides the fact that this train was headed to London all the way from New York.

"Oh, it's great!" A haggard, working woman sat next to us with her purse tucked securely on her lap. "I leave at 9 and I'm there by 9:40... And I'm home just as quick," said the woman as she nodded her head with agreeable certainty.

A 40 minute underground shoot to London!

We stepped out from beneath the crust of the earth and the sun and sky were different. The position of longitude made for an altered scope of how the natural atmosphere is usually viewed. This wasn't New York's sky. This was London's sky. This was not our sky. The buildings were pale and the architecture was old and smooth. People were scurrying around, like in New York. But the people were not New Yorkers. They were a different breed... taller, whiter, and dressed tightly and walked their streets with confidence. We poured out from the underground in our haphazard, American way.

And wouldn't you know it? The first damn thing we decided to do was visit a local pub to have ourselves a hearty, potent brew. We stopped at an ATM to pull out some cash to exchange our dollars for pounds.

Choose An Amount:

£10 £120

£24 £164

£63 £204

£180 £220

These amounts made no fucking sense. Besides, I wasn't certain how much money was kicking around my account. I thought I would surely have to call my bank and find out.

We were on the subway again. Destination: New York, with the mindset that we would be returning to London on the next train, only to return home before the end of the night. 40 minutes there. 40 minutes back. 40 there. 40 back. There and back. There and back.

I thought...

What is lurking

in the thick thick deep,

spinning boldly but

nameless and no need for air

like a developing organism plugged

into the nutrition hose,

feeding on neglect and settlement?

Spinning in the pit of my soul's fifth pocket...

I ink...

I crumple and trash.

I ink...

I crumple and trash

I force the notes "Nuthin' latelay mooooves meee"

Where is the hero, the gem, the savior, the brightness,

striking out from the lightless box?

I thought I would think a while on the trees-

ancient, large, curling with authority, beautiful but not.

I thought the injection of writers' past would rush into the void of my own veins-

leave me scribbling in fits in the perfectly groomed streets, huddled on the benches of

the park made from heaven but no.

I thought of love and perfection and all I'm "worth" according to bank statements and fine foods and over indulgence and the need for exercise because my body is never put to tests and the lavish life, dinner parties and humorous conversation with typicals and remembrances of snippets previously hocked up and served.

I thought of love and all in its absence.

Glorious painful scenes marked by its ever-stretching barren flatlands. It exists and

I used to run wild with the short flora pricking my exposed ankles.

I could plant, build, work, nourish, fix, sustain, harvest, learn...

in such a places

Peaks

Those peaks jutting from the flattened stacks

Far enough off from the foreground to simulate majesty.

A tower, a bell.

A clock and a bell or two.

Thousands of needy hands.

Dating back from the days of dirt.

They scurry the perimeter way below

the spikes... piercing the gates of heaven.

They scurry and enter in frantic droves.

They leave red-faced and hungry for supper.

A tower, hands, and bells.