Icarus fell from the sky
with a noise of the landing B-52 bomber.
his wings were stolen by the unholy panhandler
the moments before he regained back his consciousness.
she found him covered with wax and Albatross feces,
lying down in the puddle whistling Chopin’s Étude in E minor.
she took him home and asked for a child, yet he refused,
but used her body while her soul wasn’t looking.
at the crack of dawn he opened the window of her cozy East Village apartment
spread his arms and stepped down.
I couldn’t finish reading this story,
the lady in the train rolled her Post
and stepped out on West 4th.
take the crosstown bus!
please, take the crosstown bus,
which takes you across
your entangled mind
straight up to the North.
the driver will give you
a smile,- or not.
a cross-eyed girl
will stick her tongue out,
& wrinkle her nose.
just take the crosstown bus
up to the North.
take the cross town bus,
up to the dusk.
from this itching City
up to the skies.
meet there a cross-eyed girl,
& buy her ice-cream.
she’ll straighten your mind
w/her pallid warm skin.
just take the crosstown bus…
disconnected from the mothership
of the common sense,
I was orbiting like a dead astronaut
frozen in his embryonic pose
on the bed around the night light.
I probably forgot all Newton’s laws.
– There is nothing except His omnipotence!
– sleeping subway depot.
– three nightingales singing Greatful Dead songs.
I turned the light on.
it got dark outside,
all passing cars,
girls on the bikes,
kids in the strollers pushed by their moms,
they all disappeared into the dark void.
then the music was over
in the wet paper-towel.
the phantom pain
in the barbwire’d eyes.
like a sand between
the fingers of the time.
the commuters in the various shoes
the glass doors continued to be closed;
until they opened.
the opened doors, –
the new endeavors are waiting!
the commuters in-poured
throughout the doors
into the boat.
their shoes too.