I sit in blank,
with no wording.
Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,
Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.
For now, this empty,
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,
anywhere but here.
I speak in rhyme,
It comes out unintentionally,
and fucks with me,
leaving the listener
with a thought,
for the better or not.
Now I can’t stop.
There is a lot
that rhymes with
Being that things are still very
up in the air,
and I cannot be sure , dead certain,
of anything, really.
I will remain sipping my tea
like I lost my entire world,
Like I lost everything
but my dignity, and integrity,
and what remains is this shell full of light
as I drink this lemon ginger tea like it is the last thing I will ever drink,
and eat this sandwich like it’s my last meal.
Things become a lot more enjoyable
when you consider every moment,
this very moment, the next moment,
death could be around the corner
this, could be your last.
“ So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride” as Larry would say.
It’s the energy of the city, New York, that makes for smarter people.
You have to be quick.
You have to be on your feet.
On the subway, off the subway, missed the subway.
Cross the street, watch that taxi, hop in that taxi,
watch your step,
hello handsome fellow,
was that Jennifer Lawrence?,
Hi Al Roker, go to trader joes,
hop back on the subway,
cut through central park,
pass a large herd of dogs,
witness a proposal,
step in dog shit,
think about all the awful things about living and how that guy still hasn’t called,
watch the falling air conditioner water,
what’s in that mysterious puddle,
smell of hot garbage,
pass a really successful looking person,
Rhapsody in blue,
remind self why New York is where this dream will work,