Williamsburg Mural by Icy and Sot : Hope
Missed Connections in Manhattan
This Is What We’re Capable Of (Our Love Was Art)
august came too soon
and I’m counting the days
until time will return
to the normal way of things
no more of this speed of light bullshit-
lately the sun burns so hot
and this city drinks in the heat
leaving me helpless in the humidity
that burns like a rough whiskey-
it is only in a place like this
that the sound of a hurricane
is generated by the excessive amount
of artificial air
trying to keep the seasons away-
last night i thought i heard
the sound of shattering glass
and this morning
the sun’s reflection was in pieces
shining with the stupidity
of last night’s drunks
walking around like they owned the place
but in a place like this
no one owns much of anything-
the summer has been flying by
as summers tend to fly by
even when there is nothing to talk about
but the absence of social encounters
and personal relations skills to master-
I’ve dreaded September
ever since i was a child
trained to hate the re-institution
of the same old institution
taking my mornings
when i just wanted my morning for myself-
i realise i’ve been
looking out the windows more
waiting for someone to walk by
on the street outside
so i can watch them smoke a cigarette
or lean casually against the wall-
these days
during these heat waves
and somewhat cooler weeks
that seem out of place
the line between freedom and chains
begins to blur
because a filled day is a filled day
and sometimes it feels
like that’s the goal anyway-
if life is too short
maybe a cold, hard winter
is all i really need-
Her Two Cents
If a cold, hard winter is what our Manhattan poet was hoping for when they released this poem to the world, I sure hope they’re happy with the results as they look out their window and try to navigate the ice and snow covered sidewalks. For me, I’d gladly take August now, I’d gladly take September now, even with all its end-of-season wistful longing.
