I have been dreaming, but my mind is interrupted by life, anger, and animals, so I have only known physical rest. The air smells like shit in the city and the trees are thin, without souls, their vein-arms reaching into a sky that wears pollution like a wig, human voices drowning the sound of thought.
There are old churches, but I do not believe that the dead are interested in stones; the bodies of the living fill their muscles with ego and worry until they bulge out of the skin like tumors. People keep speaking like their voices will build antlers but the sounds dissipate into the air, uncalcified, strengthening the smog. Artists lose their minds cleaning tables and sweeping the floors of bars, remembering a time when the avenues were full of clay that embraced the curves of their feet.
I am tired and hungry and I feel concrete pouring down my throat, cutting into my intestines and breeding with my blood, charming its way into the valves of my heart.
I am leaving with my lover, to a place where the air is full of water.
Jesus has left Brooklyn. The graffiti has been washed off the brick to make room for works by paid painters; the words of prophets were cleaned from the streets when the people of color were taken from their blocks.
Ask God if New York deserves your prayers.
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