"Aesthetic Realism NYC"

reads the sing hanging above

a doorway in Soho;

the subscript proclaims this to

be a "terrain gallery".

I've only lived in New York City for

three, maybe four years

at most -

but I can say without

a doubt, that the

aesthetic of this, the

center of my world,

my home and my life,

this wondrous city shining

at the mouth to the Atlantic,

are very lovely;

I just with the pain

of being alone

in a city of eight million

wasn't so steeped

in realism.

If waiting for familiarity

were a phenomenon as refreshing

as the smell, the taste,

the experience of cool water

running down your throat in

a smoky room where your body

can move as it pleases, carried

away by a pure sound and a pure

moment and the pure fire of life

inside of you, how long

would you have waited on

that curb?

Would you have been stuck there

forever, waiting for a perfect

comfortable moment that you

knew would never arrive?

Venture into the darkness, child;

brave the terror of the red lights,

the lightning-fast noise, the smoke;

the only thing you have to fear is

the fact that you were willing

to wait idly as destiny

passed you by.

There is an uptown

express

3 train to

(my bed, my home, my sanctuary;

a hot bath, a good meal, an old friend)

approaching the station;

please stand

(up, get ready -

the train's almost here -

you're almost home!)

I want to dance again but

my heart doesn't want to move;

such stony soil, choking any

flowers that might cry out:

"It's okay to dance, it's okay

to make your body sway in time

to some rhythm, or no rhythm, or

for any reason at all;

the fact that you exist needs

no justification."

I want to dance again, but

how can I possibly dance

in a garden where

nothing blooms?