Earlier this morning,
on the subway platform in Brooklyn,
Manhattan bound, I was dealing with the hermeneutics
of pouring rain, soaking people
and the subway train,
that was running late.
and I didn’t find anything prophetic
in this morning nuisance.
Till later, —
when the woman entered the train
with her disabled son.
She didn’t say a word, but the eloquence
of her eyes was overwhelming.
She looked at her boy,
I was looking at them.
I saw the light,
but the shell around my soul
was still too thick
then I had to step off.
The buzzing neon lights
are restricting my mobility.
I’m subdued to fuzzy darkness
of your modal jazzy riffs
Turn me inside out, babe!
now turn me back.
Turn me one more time!
are untangled rails,
yours are abstractive streets
(east to west, up and down)
Your eyes are windows to my soul, —
mine are headlights on the taxi,
rushing through the vigor of an avenue.
The helicopter landing near Brooklyn bridge,
barely touching the landing pad
with its skids, —
skin to skin…
No! an air to an air
a tantric experience;
a Kundalini awakening.
(a gentle chiming)
an air to an air!
more,– till the ferry will blow its horn.
and a wild brass of a baritone saxophone
will suck you into the sensual vortex.
Buzzing neon lights.
Buzzing neon nights.
Turn me inside out, babe…
She sits across the subway car.
Just an observation:
she is a morphology between the hedonistic urge and the screaming guilt,
a new geometry of beauty
which is traveling along Williamsburg Bridge.
a thin-narrow thread between her inner solitude
and my external celebration of an urban nihilism.
the Orange Book embraced by the sensual-aristocratic fingers.
I see her superimposed on the window
with the background of the empyrean Manhattan,
peeking through the haze of the casual fatigue.
One day I’ll paint her,
over your reflection on the glass wall
standing behind the glass wall,
observing constriction workers:
walking through the building sky-rise scaffolding,
raining the welding spatters
riding the elevator:
up or down.
it is raining outside–
grey water and glowing spatters.
the smoke is mixing with the cars honking
and the after-hours drunken bonding.
a Mid-Town West,
but I’m still standing behind the glass wall–
in a fishbowl longing.
your eyes are on the facade
of the newly erected condo
where people’re hiding
inside its obscure windows.
your body is living in
the pixelated slow motion
which was projected into my eyes
via small screen on the divider
between me and the taxi driver.
your face is still uncollected
from the faces I saw yesterday
on my way home wandering through
the corridors of Penn Station.