The sounds of the street below are redundant.
The horns, the rush of traffic, the
metallic clanging of trucks driving over
sheets of metal placed over swollen and
decrepit areas of 1st avenue
desperate for repairs. The neighborhood uninterested in
changing its old ways,
driven to despair. Tenets in the old tenement putting in their
time. The daily
grind. Making love and severing ties. Un-walked dogs bark from
claustrophobia
and seclusion. Park benches worn. There are no stars to be scene,
only neon
chaos. Chinese food sits heavy in bellies. Strong drinks lighten the mind.
Weary souls wander the streets like rats. The stink of summer air. The
detachment of
bitter winter. Cold pavement and snowy rooftops. Lonelieness
becomes lethargy,
isolation like a leper. Love the disillusion, the grim
fantasy. The hysterically laughing
bum, high on cheap bourbon, rotten teeth and
rotted dreams. Tenement life. Tortured
life. A writer’s life. A long time ago.
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