i write not for what i have lost. but what i want to retain. of your intelligence Mr D. confounding, in a simplistic way. your wild enthusiasm of the world around. what a sight to watch. i sigh. to myself. in my over-lit manhattan apartment.
while those passers-by scurry away. in a haste. as if their lives depend on their meager footsteps. and the quality of their arms. while i stood there last morning, not in my apartment. but in the middles of the square of times, i smiled at my soul. it felt like home. all over again. and i have missed it all these months. the hustle of rhyme. the buzz of visions. the image of the wall street man. his throbbing heart beat. his mental debauchery. his elegant suit, tailored to perfection. lighting a smile. faux and hazy. for in his mind, he fumbles with fright. at the value of today's might and paper. oh the green! his left arm swings, in a perpendicular swirl. he is gaping at the hands. and counting stars. when will it be five? so i may say. i made a lot of money today. the day was good. but sometimes. the day never came. it slipped away like a feather of silk through the miseries of the forceful clasp. we'll look forward to tomorrow.
and while in illi-noise, i heard those bells. them that i heard. two hundred years ago. in the womb of time. reminding me of a figurine. of slavish life. but i miss your face. and your tumored breasts. the crest and valley of your human wonder. to B and D, thank you for your time.
sigh.
