When I was very young in New York it was May
all year, always the hour when jacaranda slaked
on pavement in the after-rain haze kicks up
around eddies of warm wind, when a yellow
swallowtail first ruptures its chrysalis to see
petals ultraviolet with new tetrachromatic eyes,
when the red aluminum of a Rhino bike
oxidizing after too many nights left in the drive
completes its transition to liberty green.
There was always a cat lounging in sun slits
stealing through old shutters onto brown shag,
the broken head of a plastic soldier lolling
in the bath, a wobbly katana extracted
from a dollar store Halloween costume
set by the pine-tarred Louisville Sluggers as if
just another means to an end. There were
dreamcatchers, star stickers, Super Soakers,
hardcovers, nail clippers, dehumidifiers,
thermometers, babysitters, other babysitters,
Nintendo 64 controllers, hand warmers, appetizers,
candlesnuffers, ringbearers, nebulizers.
But then there were officers, lawyers, stenographers,
polygraphers, restraining orders, social workers,
Manila folders, mood stabilizers, jewelers,
pawners, dealers, enablers, surrenders,
first-time offenders, disturbers of the peace.
I am still in New York, where one never forgets
one’s enemies. Where lightning never seems
to strike, though, of course, it does.
I am in New York and I want to tell someone
but everyone I know is also in New York.
I am in New York and New York is shrieking.
Please excuse the garlic salt under the fridge,
it’s for the mice. Ditto the peppermint fronds,
the peanut butter traps, the glue pads, the tufts
of steel wool stuffed in crevices between cabinets.
I am still young but not very young
and I am waiting for the SBS to slow down
so I can lean on a yellow pole and turn the page,
I am waiting for the analysts to solve the Todestrieb,
I am waiting for James Dolan to take his billions
and vanish in the Canaries. Remember when Melo
tweeted I didn’t ask for your glazed donut face ass
to root for me anyway at a fan? Remember when
those Occupiers locked themselves in CitiBank
in the East Village and the cops nightsticked
a woman and her blood on the blueish glass wall
and riot shields in the nonplussed daylight?
I can still see the cavalry’s horseshit lining 5th Ave,
the white reconstituted school busses filling up
with the poor, my brethren.
New York never fails to let me down;
in this way it has never let me down.
Every now and then I hear him calling me
from across the street, whistling that way
with two fingers in his mouth, yelling our name
as he jogs up a nameless alley in Fordham,
rocking his cream Chucks and Carhartt,
needing a shave, long shank of a smile’s hook.
This is just a fantasy as the express F is a fantasy,
as rent controlled apartments are a fantasy,
as minimum wage is a fantasy,
as 9 to 5, as darkness and quiet and solitude,
as protect, as serve, as vigil, as recycle,
as no fumar, as see something say something,
yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I know.
