This wild town of madness constantly on the brink. Bubbling with cash and ambition, a cauldron of dreams in a knot tied around the neck of some gorgeous 6 foot nymph in combat boots and an old New York Knicks hat. You are a marvel of this quarter 21st Century. Having witnessed all the famines and fires — all the dynamic trends and price fixing. This summer is a micro content creators dream. This summer is Cannes and Mykonos without a budget. This summer is Elizabeth Street and the last stop on the M train. The sun has returned after days of rain. The barista is an asshole but the music is good and the beans are fresh. Bury me here in Louis Vuitton and Birkenstocks. Use me for my Nolita crash pad. Just a few slaps on the ass and send me out for coffee alone. The last sunny day in June. The kids are having such a good time here.
It is great here. My charms have worked. We should buy F an apartment in Nolita for when she turns 21. The importance of copy. The essentiality of market data. The tight turns along the West Side promenade. The data. A cure for my sustaining madness and chronic depression. A 4th floor walk up is all it took. A credit card with a low limit is all it took. Jazz at Smalls was all it took. Walking around the old neighbourhood feigning romance. Waiting to come home to you in a year or two. We are in love, but if we don’t talk then we don’t fight, and that is divine. The taxi cabs are divine. The style is divine. Your blonde braids and orange flip flops are divine. Your black people and determined Chinese are divine. Life changes. Intolerable changes. My love for you changes. Hungry for subway cars and bridges and humanity oozing out of a paper bag like bodega beer bottles on a Sunday afternoon. After all of this how can anyone go back to the jungle?
The jungle. A long poem. Elegance in burlap and mud. The jungle as allegory for turmoil and a relief from cancer. The jungle as a tonic for the madness. A nectar. Dipped in madness and prepared for an orgy of inner conflict. Lean into the late nights and the turnstile dilemmas. 24 years old and writing a blog. 50 years old and spitting delulu poetry. The jungle is a blended marriage of palm tree form and concrete function. Nestled between the tracks. Curled up between the subway cars. Tanning on the tenement roof tops. New York City as a lightning bolt from the hands of Gods. A garbage truck and a cold hamburger at 3am. Born for reckless insolence and cold women who will not fuck you. There is a shape of downtown Manhattan gift wrapped in Tiffany blue and pulsing. Like a kidnapped victim stuffed in a bag.
Thrashing with the suicidal clowns and walking downtown without a worry in the world. You have money and time. You have purpose and love. Continuously open phone lines and measured sex appeal. You have the affirmation of angels yet dressed like a southern whore. If you were to marry me the sun would explode and seed Central Park with mermaids and basketballs. Your favourite colour is disaster and your language is stress. Come sit in the sun outside this tiny cafe and watch the delivery trucks roll by like a parade of progress on a street of destiny. That is a great shirt you are wearing. Thank you for being nice to me. This drip coffee at Milkwood Studio is delicious.
