Held-square, something un-defined above sets short bare legs running. A grey metal shod cane keeps one man from fighting but not from war. Lone family sedan stopped at curb has eyes peering out windshield. Heavy coats insulate all to-some degree. There is an absence of food in clutched carry bags. Everyone stares to an invisible horizon. I imagine nobody drinks cucumber infused water inside this city’s Grand Hotel anymore.
I look at the New York City sky, miss evening’s natural light, won’t win any pipe smoking contests but instead stroll, a long-white puffing man is my shadow. This street is silent process and a poet tells me not to throw anyone under a bus, but I seek hulking giants and I write and I do it anyway.
Thinking of another poet; what happened with their marionette poem, that’s rhetorical, place aside the puppet, the stanzas weren’t about the dummy’s TV show. I was told it was about a relative, in hindsight the writer’s probably the street bound Muppet craving fingers.
Poor definition hangs in the air and I’ll not find anything I can use on my NYC footpath; that’s walking backward, and this place is congested by poets walking backward, developing American accents, though, like me, they’re all visitors to these States, and each of them, they say, ‘they say’ to highlight windmills.
Looking tall I know I can’t help it and you’ll think it’s about you, we all do. Everyone in this image is still and like me looking upward, trying to make something, and there is this drone of a thousand clip buttons clicked to run, simultaneously, each hits tacitly prescribed rhythm and implicitly agreed cadence; while past people in my hand, they don’t know the records for mass aerial bombings peak from this postcard.
