They are only eight numbers away, and you have ten fingers

Avenue of the Americas (The Reformation)...

From desert to city, already forgotten new arrivals in Manhattan.

A rumble came deep and steady screeching like machines of Morlocks unsettling for first time street bench sitter. The underground maze not puzzling the night dweller masturbater and gloomy overcoat prisoners, hiding from howling New York City apparitions of wolves in air vents of bathroom, 13th floor, for the second time. Street visions of Ginsberg in SoHo, I am sleepless and mind lost, wandering, walking with a quarter dollar black plastic bag from laundromat twisting knuckles needing maps. Wide awake in Times Square lights considering month long Canadian nights in the gateway to the rockies, Alberta, Alberta, like the name of some 1920's aunty. Graceful Chinatown newspaper ballet, dances a natural Swan Lake with subway grate, Swan Grate, hooded by tobacco smoke in palms of black gloves while Canal harbours black clad Manhattan Island hipsters with knees greeting leather greeting sheep holding spines from remaining winter chill at 5pm evening, like ghosts we are receding. Simulate midair crucifixion in central Central Park stimulating dance, I'm here and I'm breathing alive in the rhythm of a second. The rock tombs, the microcosmic wombs witness reverence, all in the imagination of the math that makes the crowd, the singular into many, into one, and the two that laughed at roses. Blue blonde by pond the skeletal arms and fingers of trees creeping across the sky spookily, wonder if she's scribbling about her life and what it's all about. I smelt grass down Rambling, felt the warmth between lips and breath of fleeting romance of man and woman in stone alcove.

(On the subway from Broadway to Times Square wondered about mystic similarities unknown unnoticed, they were children they had parents, what do we have in common? The mythic proportions of New York)
Eyes gouged away at grouting between granite rectangular pavement on South Broadway revealing subterranean time lapse backwards through history. I say goodbye and long live New York City, God bless the beggar in Greenwich Village, next time I'll buy you soup, while worrying about records in the belly of a Greyhound bound for the Capital, at least I'm not hungover. The Garden State Parkway somehow reminds me that eights are bound to live long and die alone. It doesn't have to be dark to see stars in America, flag pole snakes stiff and upward saluting a thousand suns above spring red fiery amber tips of branches look like flames, parks and forests are slowly putting their clothes back on after being naked for so long. Turquoise right arm polka dot brunette made inquisitive eyes at Egyptian good luck coin and Aswan octagon over sternum at chest. I also noticed hers. The District of Columbia is a pretty chapter in the story book of Spring. I want to fold America into my notebook and take it home.

the truth isn't always what you're told, it's what you're not
the truth isn't always what you know, it's what you don't

in the bright night blue becomes you