Too High To Make Connections

Too High To Make Connections

Asphalt in labor pushes taxis, in yellow membrane sacs, from below ground into urine air. The planes of road; bisected and trisected in yellow, twinkle-- the road is made of glass. Sbarro on 42nd in Italian red, white, and green-- coffee is tapped from copper urns that glow just enough to make caffeine scream. Howling espresso. Above the square, firework ads make ground mirror sky. Kiosks sell tobacco points of light in red paper packs.

The bleating of cars, cut off by tourists, dance to the sound of the underground trains; tunnels heave their steamy exhales through gratings. The gutters drink from the city's cocktails, sipping from vats of distilled stuff. Stringy thieves slalom 'round theatre goers until pockets bulge with uptown purses. Slinky things hustle out of town Mr. Smiths. A low cloud is sticky sheets.

The bum pisses in the alley and staggers off smelling of malt liquor; he begs change for some coffee. Gray card stone picks up color and nuzzles it as its own, flat blue noon, blush orange eve, garish lingerie midnight-- only shadows past two. Spilled ink downtown tipped by an elbow running into crevices spreading uptown towards morning. Art theatres have no charm at four a.m.