Yeah, my pals. I know you say you're elsewhere.
But you bleet in my heart at the times I know myself best.
Embracing from a stranger's gaze,
a wide smile.
Humour flooded with intelligence
Confident lust of life
Raw baffoon and adored prince in one
Narrowing in on intuition and congealed love
I love. I love
Atheists, jews, baptists, pagans, communists, spiritual sojourners
bonded over dim-sum
cooked in second-hand wok baskets
New York Subway Artist
3 out of 100
make unmistaken eye contact with him.
His breath resounds in his chest and throat then;
His voice more distinguished to his own ear.
He is credible in these moments.
A street musician acknowledged
in the heat & clackity rumba of the subway
the cars churning their hips in defiance of a lone person's artistry
In absence of eye contact, he willfully presumes his effect on people
A smile playing on his lips at the fleeting thought that
maybe in the rebellion of morning's corporate buzz,
or during delicious love-making
his tune will filter out from people's subconscious.
A hypothetical intimacy for the road.
The subway can't compete then.
Commuters' attentiveness to nothingness tripped up by