christ is in the city,
this is why it never sleeps,
and he stands on lonely street corners
sometimes selling oranges in big yellow crates
for dirt cheap,
or he's in the gutters,
eating garbage chinese off his knees,
but mostly he's in,
real smooth,
the moment,
and
belches like Mingus
for anyone who will listen,
that real soul deep down
to your shoes blues
that shakes you from
the roots and leaves
you breathless
wanting more,
and feet tap tapping like
they can tell you a thing or two
about real homegrown
jazz,
cuz they've always got that beat
worn down and tired,
from walking all day
all week
all time
but still they keep that
rhythm and run you
ragged across that rundown floor
while that confused little-boy brain
wonders kind of crazy
when you grew up
and why, why
oh, why didn't nobody
tell you what was happening,
but before you can catch your breath
to find the answer in the rafters
those legs are flying, man,
and you're digging Coltrane while
this big brass angel
huffs and puffs and blows
your house down,
hurtles that tin-roofed shack right out the window,
which whirlwinds you
straight out west until you've crossed the atlantic
and tasted opium and spices in china,
felt the indigo cotton of india,
catching rides on boxcars boxcars boxcars
of darjeeling,
with whipping wind cutting
through tangled hair that
slaps against sun-tanned
beaten
weathered
smiling faces with
wise old owl eyes,
peering from
the wide open spaces of trains
and hitchhiked trucks,
but then,
suddenly it's those feet again,
with that itching and
thumping
in worn-out talking shoes,
feel that pulse from the other side of the earth,
and make their way right across the continents
and you end up where you started,
to right
before you've left,
and home sweet home in the city that don't never get no rest,
feeling kind of foreign,
but
now i'm knowing why
i love you new york,
it's because
god, oh god
you make me feel
so alive.