Street Nothings, New York City

From my visit to New York:

December 22, 2007
"Saturday, the last"

What are you peddling, old man? You have no table; no trinkets. You sit behind nothing. Passersby do not stop for your wares; they continue on, to the next peddler -- who has a card table and things for sale. You sit there, between two honest salesmen. I don't trust you, old man. Not at all.

"Canal St. Station, J-train"

The blast of wind as the subway train passes feels good and cleansing to the face.


December 23, 2007

We sat on a few barstools in the Starbucks along Broadway, sipping our coffees. The weather was wet, and the buildings were darker. New Yorkers, when faced with wet weather, do not adjust their composure; they remain steady: their step, confident. No, Angelenos, they hustle as if wet carried illness.

On the A-train to the airport, I sat across a young black mother of no older than sixteen. She had her baby in a stroller in front of her. The lull of the subway had put the mother to sleep. Don't worry, child-mother, I'll look after her. You sleep for now. She's fine. I won't let anything happen to her. Not on my watch. I wonder who's the father. Is he decent? Well-to-do? Maybe not. You're only sixteen. What good man would knock a girl up at that age? No, no good man.

There are no longer brave philosophers who assert metaphysical categories that categorize. Not since Kant, anyway. Show me one, show me one.

"Everywhere's an idyll"

Everywhere’s an idyll,
if only I image
the bucolics as real and here.
My home is charming, with trees that shed
in autumn and sweet Sierra grass
and wind-red manzanita.

"It is cold. He wears a wool topcoat."

It is cold. He wears a wool topcoat.
Embossed with laurels and ribbons,
the buttons hang well at the cuff.

His knitted brow—two long furrows—
are pocked, trench-like between.
How are things, I ask. Fine

He says, the second time. You look
fine. Thanks, he says. He checks
his pocket watch—engraved

on the back. It ticks with the sound
of a grandfather clock. He fumbles
for smokes. I give him one.

Are you all right? You do
seem troubled. I’m fine, he says.

"I am a traveler of cities"

I am a traveler of cities,
of in-between streets
and go-up buildings
that shadow the corners
the hurry-about men
rumble past.

The bustle channels
its din past the cars and
cafes that open onto the
sidewalk the trees are
imprisoned in; they too
are grey.

Though I love its smell and sight,
I am but a traveler, and I will
leave here, to more colorful rustics.