the twins

it was Easter -
my second time at the big apple.

my father took me to see the twins.
the sky was foggy 
and wet 
that morning.

i didn't think anything of it
back then, but
two years later the twins died,

and the rest is history.

that river

it’s daytime,

and a wide, swift river of

faces

is flowing down Sixth avenue,

rarely stopping

for

traffic lights.

a

steady

flow

of lives,

intertwined

in that river,

but essentially separate,

unique.

I think about it sometimes,

about that river

of faces

don’t matter when you’re reading this,

it hasn’t changed

unless the city’s

gone,

but if it is, then

you and i

and these words

have gone with

it,

so what does it matter…

there are businessmen

and actors,

homeless youth,

the mailmen,
lawyers,

cops.

there are models,

teachers,

dog walkers,

and

beggars.

they’re all there.

in that river

of

faces

breeding

loneliness.

the city

is a vast, concrete maze

without an exit

where rivers, such as this,

run into

one

and form

downtown

alive,

till the sun goes down.

they say the city never sleeps,

but I have seen it sleep,

I watched it sleep.

it

sleeps,

but keeps the lights on.

at 3 am,

when bars are closed,

and food vendors are gone,

the only ones awake

are the mad ones

with no place

to

go,

the graveyard shift,

the forgotten…

the night nurtures a strange crowd

…

but it’s daytime now,

and I watch that stream flow

steady

like it’s never going to stop.

I watch the

faces

pass me by, and

I am happy

to know,

that I’m just a small kaleidoscopic spec

in their daily routine.

a memory,

if that even.

a decoration,

just another face

they probably won’t even remember.

I write, so I would have something to read.

I write things that need to be written,

but

sometimes

friends ask me

for writing

pointers,

with trust.

as if I knew

what I am doing.

tell you the truth –

I don’t,

I never knew,

but that

don’t stop

me

anymore.

when years ago I tried,

I filled my notebook

pages up with rhymes,

a lot of pages

of a lot of notebooks,

and said

nothing,

till I stopped trying.

I often lay awake

at night,

thinking of things

that

will forever keep me

guessing

but, I'm never sure

just how much of it

is

poetry,

and how

much

bullshit.

there’re rules, you see,

a general agreement

on how

words should

be

arranged

to be called

poetry.

how long should verses be,

where should they rhyme,

what should the message be,

the moral

feeling

flow.

there are names for

different techniques

such as

'hexameter'

and

'pentameter'.

whatever happened to the weird and reckless?

the bottom line –

it’s science,

structure.

and I fuckin’ hate

structure.

it’s

breathless.

I always found it hard

to rhyme and stay

authentic.

the difference is –

now I don’t give a shit.

a poem’s what I say a poem is.