manhattan random abstractions non-poem
fifty-seventh and seventh
what is a barrel sitter?
of course, a man with nothing better
to do than sit on a barrel outside of steinway hall;
his skin brown, not so much from the sun, but from grime;
his dirty, fungus ridden feet protruding from his torn sneakers,
staring blankly at those-who-matter, walking by
with the the certain knowledge on their faces:
he does not exist.
twenty five feet away, inside the air-conditioned
and i don't have to explain what a salesman is --
his dark hair and dark tailored suit are perfect.
he sits and stares blankly, looking through
the computer on desk, past it
onto the street, watching those-who-matter,
with the certain knowledge on their faces:
a woman of a certain age
with a decidedly weathered face,
but gorgeous legs sits in the back of a pedi-cab
feigning demure posture, which is impossible
when you are a woman of a certain age
with gorgeous legs, a very short skirt
and very high heels
propelled through the city streets
by a muscle bound israeli.
in the perversion of my prurient poet's mind
i fancy she is delighted that being demure
at such a time
is just not possible.
crossing the street,
i am narrowly missed by a careening limo
and i recall the words of a pentecostal preacher
who confessed to me that he had a
real 'eye gate problem'
especially when it came to the singer deborah harry,
'you are rendered indestructible,
until the lord calls you home.'
approaching my place of business
i catch sight of three inebriated movers
oggling the passing women, commenting
to each other about the positive and negative physical
attributes of each and i find myself wondering
if, when men gang together to do this,
a homoerotic activity?
i think i wish would have kissed my lady deeply
one more time before we parted this morning,
no particular reason;
a bumper sticker on the car that usually
parks next to mine reads
"the meaning of life is to live it,"
but i think
31 July, 2007
58th street NYC