Grey day in New York City.
On the edge of a stranger’s bed I sit sipping a hot cup of Mate,
Reading and looking out over the East River at the rain shrouded Island of Manhattan.
The orange construction cranes at River’s edge and the vivid green of the trees interspersed among the muted red and grey brick buildings in the foreground, make that great skyscraper filled island appear as the painted backdrop from an old movie.
A film Noir that begins, “It was a rainy day in Brooklyn.”
The room is quiet but for the sound of afternoon rain filtering in from the open balcony door. My head though, is filled with a babble of voices. All the old Poets and Punks who shaped me. Kerouac and Burroughs and The Velvet Underground.
Wild, crazy voices screaming about “living, really living!” and “Go, go, GO!!”
“Sunday Morning….” In an ethereal German accent. Somewhere, Sid Vicious is singing “My Way” while Frank sidles up to the bar and orders another Jack and Coke from his Heavenly Host.
And the rain whispers about stories as yet untold.
