New York is a sitcom.
It’s not quite what Seinfeld taught me –
no “Come in! Sit down!” humor,
no hourglass to turn over and watch as
crystals drop, snap, dissolve into a bottom glass.
They lie here; I wear thick specs to observe but
can’t seem to relieve a smudge on my
blind spot. Here it’s all good-intention trees,
pigeonholes and Pradas with no passports,
no natives, no certainty, no attachment.
The words I ink are life-size when they leave
the ballpoint but elongate as do
shadows and streets or gentrification on the Lower East.
Marco paintings grow younger in thought;
steps grow worn like an old pillow but
without spaghetti stains or cartoon sheets.
Now, I forget too often; I unwind black wires but
they do not come back the way the telephone would.
The wires can only drift and wander and get
lost in the avenues.