Poem

Rare, I know.

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You dirty piece of shit
Your multitudes
Your masses.
You teem with poets
Artists and bankers
Your kimchi is perfect
Your Tom Kha Gai unbeatable
Your subway disgusting
Your cabs overpriced
Yet
You vibrate, you live
Every moment of you lives
Whether your 30 Rock or your Queens
Every inch of you moves
Energy – just the energy
It’s electricity
It’s lightning
You can’t feel it anywhere but Berlin
It consumes you
Those of us who stare at the moon
At the corn rising high and alone
Who consume solitude as you
Children of glass and steel
Grown to love high things
See the Chrysler Building
And long for it; long for the moon empty in the black
Long for the moon smiling on your spire
On your light
On the blackness we share
I often laugh at your hipsters.
I imagine what effort it must take to seem so effortlessly cool.
I never could live up to that.
I have fucked many who presume to.
I have walked down Broadway and Fifth, through Williamsburg and Bushwick. I have heard Whitman echo in my ears. Burroughs call to me from the grave. And I, dear friends, have listened.
And so I open this door to stare at the moon
And I think of New York
And wish for it with all my heart
I think of friends I know who are there
I think of the MOMA and all those who made perfection
And the Met and the river and the unending light.
I think of New York in the moonlight.
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~ by Benji on 12 October 2011.

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