Brunch in Manhattan

New York, New York is one big, complex, endless dance that is completely improvised. The streets and avenues run the dance floor bustling with juking taxis and jiving pedestrians. Every traffic signal, every car horn, every flashing billboard, every neon sign, every jaywalker, every “fuck you” and “fuck me” and “I love you, you goddamn cheating son of a bitch” move to the rhythm of this city’s beating heart. There is a tourist for every New Yorker, and a New Yorker for every pigeon. Well, more like every 12 pigeons. Those fuckers are everywhere– I mean seriously, if an alien were to observe the dominant organisms of NYC, it would put them in this hierarchy: 1. Cars

2. Pigeons

3. Jews

4. Everyone Else

It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t murdered each other with all this shoulder to shoulder, bumpin’ and grindin’, humpin’ and kissin’, cryin’ and sweatin’, laughin’ and scootin’, slappin’ and pickpocketin’ and dancin’ madness. It could make a grown man cry. And it does. Seriously, find the nearest homeless man and hand him your whole wallet and see the waterworks. Either he cries or he’ll shank you with a sharpened spoon he used to smoke crack. Either way it’s a win-win, for him at least– he gets a shitload of money to buy more crack in either outcome.

So bring all your weary and your merry men and women and other genders that are haphazardly slapped onto half the bathrooms here, for this city has a place for everyone, from the Wall Street Execs to the Struggling Actress/Waitress to the Hand Holding Annoying Couple to the Wheelchair Bound Cerebral Palsy Man Just Trying to Get a Few Bucks By Playing a Broken Fiddle So He Can Make It to the Other Side of Town Where He Sleep Under A Different Bridge Tonight. Either way, every one in New York, New York is a New Yorker.

And so the dance goes on.


Mr. Toots

for those who dont like peaches they seem like little fuzzy beetles without the shell because the whale birds dont know that the boats are coming for them and the snakes are singing the flute-bear’s ballad that says all ferrets should be ostrichized for the mass gifting of small blenders made of stone given to badgers with wings slicing clouds and air-raiding tortoise-tank military bathrooms so that the electric guitars may elicit the revolution of sword people since their homeworld was destroyed by golden-SOLO-cups brimming with the puppies of vengeance and infernapes so we are all blessed to be going down in such a colorful Armageddon.Image

Sound of a Bee

Alright, before I begin this poem, I must disclose that what I’m writing is completely fictional. Please don’t judge.

Twelve strikes the clock.

I see the door, it gives me
dirty looks,
so I kick it in its stupid face.

Twelve strike the clock.

I see the TV, it flashes me–
how dare he! Needs to respect
me, so kick it in its stupid face.

Striking twelve clock.

Wifey! Oh, pretty wife,
I’m just fine, fine, never better.
No, just fine, fine, fine. Only a few.

Twelve the strike.

Why should I stop? C’mon,
loosen up! Have some fun…
Have some fun. HAVE SOME STUPID–

I strike the wife.