world trade center Archives

Monolithic Heart

How did I get here?
You’ll never guess where I am.
In the belly of the Titanic.
Deep in the sinking heart and center.

I return to the scene of the crime.
Ten plus years later.
A hundred million tears later.
Since it all tumbled down.

The city blood rushes on.
Renews itself with fresh oxygen and steel.
Only its memory holds the pain.
Its cells are strong, resilient.
The fire forges a new change.

A broad and ever expanding skyline.
A monolithic heart of darkness.
No intrusion withstanding.
It pumps and breathes on.

I like to be in tune with the music of New York.
So many simultaneous symphonies.
So many psychic notes.
It fills the air in blinding colors.
If you are one of the lucky few.
Who colors do coordinate harmonically.

The instrumentation is beyond richness.
Always approaching train wreck cacophony.
Climax and diminuendo.

The rests are an integral part of this song.
But they only come in long wave frequency.
Once in a strange while the silence sets.
The audience gasps and holds the breath.
Awaiting the next note.
Will it come crashing in again?
With fire and a terrifying chorus of screams.
Will the next bar blind us with infrared.
Anticipation is the element that builds this New York City musical mood.

Deep in Manhattan

Suddenly engulfed in too much New York. They all breath heavily under this din and crush. American Indians are still down here—savages, as they were called, by creators of stoic myths and merciless deities. Their words still hold a stone’s stance in the foundation. Manna Hatta.

If I give them credence, their ghosts will purge this sallow skin of guilt, wash this perfumed carcass of pomp, clean of lousy ease and perilous welfare. I can not give up the freedom. It holds me like a greased pup. We are hungry paparazzi with hairy teeth, halitosis of the memory, grandiose creators of googleplexic reasons to seek fame. But our fame is reserved for God alone. Now we wait down here on this shelf to secure a place in Heaven’s grave.

Just before early Autumn, this splash of bloody grace came to wake us from our holy slumber. A splash of bloody grace to help us remember. Help us remember the falling eyes. The fallen eyes sunken deep down here in the lower parts of Manhattan.