autumn comes with
sun’s jaded breath
through the leaden clouds
leaving bitter-
sweet memories
on your tongue
of another
summer
withered
gone
Color Theory
on this blue evening
as I sip on a glass of
red wine, i’m letting
the idea of you melt
into the yellow horizon
An Underground Rat
You wallow in the ceaseless sounds
Of the sirens & the impatient honking
Of the taxi drivers.
Diminutive –
You’re carried by the current
Of the busy sidewalk.
Melting
Into the mundane thrum
Of the city,
Like the slice of American
Pressed between the fatty
Layers on the BEC.
Once your excitement
For the bustling streets
Settles,
You begin to notice
the way the greyness of the sky
Reflects in the sea of passing-by-faces –
How easily they find comfort
Underneath their blinding umbrellas
On a rainy morning.
And once you learn the difference
Between the “uptown” & “downtown”
Signs in the subway,
It all becomes
A little
More
Bearable.
The homeless man bathing
In the puddle of Union sq Park
Doesn’t strike you as something crazy anymore.
You don’t wrinkle your nose
Watching the rats drag a slice of stale pizza
Into their underground kingdom
While you wait for the forever-delayed train --
Too sticky and cold in the summer,
Too suffocating and hot in the winter.
Or at the sillage of acrid fumes
of the black garbage mountains –
the city’s staple fragrance.
The pigeons hopelessly hop around,
Some, on just one good leg, to pick out what’s left
Of the Hershey’s candy bar wrap--
New York City birds
Have a taste
Like no other.
And when you try to escape it
You find yourself back here again,
Fettered to this rhythm
The city dances to,
Unfolding,
Every corner you turn
It reveals a little bit more,
In its crooked mirrors,
You see what you’ve become --
Rhythm of the City
“One belongs to New York instantly—one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.”
You wallow in the ceaseless sounds of the sirens and the impatient honking of the taxi drivers. The current of the busy sidewalks makes you feel diminutive. But you don't mind that. Melting into the mundane rhythm of the city, like the butter does on a warm sourdough toast, somehow, feels right.
This city instills you in how to find comfort in being alone. A city filled with so many people—you would hardly think that you would ever feel lonely. But you do.
Once the excitement of the bustling streets starts to settle down, you begin to rummage through the sea of faces of the strangers on the train, in the hope to find a remnant of warmth. You start to notice the way the grayness of the sky reflects in the faces of passing by strangers—how easily they find comfort underneath their blinding umbrellas on a rainy morning.
The angry drivers hide behind their wheels. The countless sirens. In some way, it all becomes a little more bearable. The homeless man bathing in the puddle of Union Square Park doesn't strike you as something crazy anymore. And the pigeons—the way they hopelessly hop around their one good leg, to pick out what's left of the Hershey's candy bar wrap, left on the ground—the New York City birds have a taste like no other.
Fettered to this routine feels suffocating and inspiring at the same time. This rhythm. This pattern. It seems to be inescapable. Yet, you can’t remember the times you tried to run away from it.
You stay here and watch the city unfold in front of you, every corner you turn, every train you take, it reveals itself to you a little bit more.
On the Edge of Summer
Sand-covered skin, hiding in the shade of the umbrella, from the burning sun, which only feels good for the first twenty minutes. Somehow, it still finds its way into your heart, leaving an imprint of the warm summer days. It leaves an imprint on the cover of the book you left on your blanket for too long—the colors start to fade.
I learned to appreciate the company of the cloudier August days when it doesn’t hurt to look up into the sky. When the beaches are slowly starting to become less crowded, and all you hear is a distant chatter, the flapping of the wings of food-hunting seagulls, and the crashing waves.
If you're wondering about how I'm spending the last few weeks of this summer, I'm losing myself in another book, the pages of which hold traces of sand, under a dreamy umbrella, on a beach in Brooklyn.