Love blows you apart. New York City blew you apart.
New York didn't render love superfluous,
But love rendered New York superfluous
Insofar as the whole point of New York
Is having no dining room but restaurants
No meditation room but the streets.
No practice room but the stage on which others perform
Unless imagination be a rehearsal room
For a body-deferring self, the leading role,
A sliver in a world of slivers hoping to connect,
Too busy trying to sell to make anything to sell, to spend.
Sure New York need be about these things
But then it's just like anywhere else
& why pay such rents for that?
Especially when you don't respect
Those who achieve success through socializing
As much as you do those who do so through the kind
Of laziness that passes for hard work enough to feel like
The love that blows the city apart, and may even
Side with bodies against the self-loathing self
(as if much more thought goes into the music
that gets you to feel than the poetry
which gets you to think you feel)