Another New Jersey night raid
Through the hills of melancholy malls
Outside the realm of American norms
Home to the still dreaming tribes
In a concrete dowry
Her gift is bestowed
Upon the Prince of travel
Still the mystery begs to unravel
Where is your great continental heart?
That once pumped with Springsteen blood
Now a stent is laid that I may pass
Once again trudging through your mass
There will be no sleeping for me this morning, on the long-haul commuter bus from Kingston to Port Authority. The suspension has a great shark’s bite on the smallest of bumps. The air conditioning is hammering the back of my neck. The “cigarette lady” has chosen her seat directly behind mine.
Out of the corner of my sleepy eye, I see her yellowed hand imposing a little on my periphery. I smell the sour acrid gag of stained and spotty organs. Her cough begins shortly after departure, lung and trachea protest the imposed sanctions. As the nicotine receptors settle in to the martial law, the listless lack of oxygen will huff the grey cloud of sleep upon the tarred and charcoal soul. She claims the seat next to hers for streaked and straining capillaries of lower extremities, and soon enough she will floats off into the thick atmosphere of dreams, snoring in Chinese.
Are there still weddings in this weather?
It seems that the brides would melt into pools of anxious sugary syrup.
I suppose the show must go on.
I’m not as cynical as I once was.
This activity is no stranger to me than sports or watching television.
But I do worry about the wilting flowers.
They will begin to lean over the second the ceremony is over.
They will question their decision to bear blossom.
They will falter faced with rainy seasons.
Care for them Mother.
The innocent victims of Nature’s drama.
Protect the fragile sensations.
Keep the light high enough so they don’t wither,
And strong enough to draw the attention of their perfect seeking faces.
The moon is sudden, sullen, and not right.
It comes upon us in a new way tonight.
Let it find its own way through.
Just as it deftly cuts the blue
Of day.
It will be restored to a subject of worship
In time and tide its falter tips
Back into our magnetic blood
Drawing all the salt of eyes, and earth, into the flood
Of tears