MEET:
Instead of finding Hopper's empire I stumbled upon a New York that belongs to: The beautifully ritualistic Jews Aged Russian men, whose breath has gone sour from distilled liquor The beach combers, in high hopes Gold Rolex persistence, never lose faith
The bird-dogs Stretched necks Strained muscles Tomorrow we're fasting Tonight we're feasting
The subway riders The cocaine confiders The three color covenant Red White Green
The Cyclone dare devils Even the Pimps, Pushers, and Hair dressers The hot dog demolishers The handball hustlers The barefoot boardwalk armies Splinters and sand
Nail-polished tip toes Oil Spills Black Black Young black girls Who have mastered the art
Sundresses on a cloudy day Mothers Fathers People who can't take the day off Even on the Isle of Coney
White hair Bare chested Gold cross preachers "I haven't been to chruch in years" he exclaims
That's ok, you're sacred anyway
The Red's Yellow's Green's Neon Lights as hot as every Nathan's stand
Arm's over shoulders The beer's not getting any colder
People who don't care that on a monday afternoon they're not in a cubical Or a bus stop Or sweating on a Manhattan bound subway Or the back of a deli Or the front of a station wagon Desperately trying to get out of the city before five People who know why they're here What they're doing here And how to get far away from here
