the girls that walk the streets of
Williamsburg, the Brooklyn girls, they
saunter in serious hips in that way that makes you think,
"Have. The state of not wanting."
you hide out for days in Greenpoint, holed up and getting high, contemplating apocalypse. scrounge for a meal that won't make the body reject itself, we burn the pots and talk about indigenous peoples and motherhood, debating over listening to things we've never heard before, stoned and mobile, glaring and gleaming.
dreaming of buckwheat days when this won't be the issue, asphyxiating in the humid not-quite-summer shade.
Whatever happened to Will MacKenzie? and the band plays on in rustbucket corners of Chinatown.
four dollars, three burnouts, and god-knows-too-many waiting hours, time dissolved in cigarettes and new technologies. untanned shoulders sore from lack of sex, skin in sheen memorial to brothers and sisters lost indefinitely to the west coast. the lowest and highest of buttercup hopes
and desirable straits.
tribal like movement music played from personal portable stereos, never letting on that a driven groove gets us off... manually. fresh ink and occasional gear shifts keep us fueled and rolling, slashing the president's tires as we peal out of paved paradise to the throb of psychophantic techno.
blood and gravel and gratuitous skin on midnight rooftops in sectors of the city we've never seen on a subway map, and we shrivel in Manhattan with our American Dreams
and think about the Brooklyn girls.