I once saw a man, a boy, running up a New York street—Fifth Avenue, to be exact, from 37th—with a piano on his back and scarf trailing like a cape. He made music, I made poems. We both believed in love and beauty and travel and cities, like others believe in dogma, nations, gods, money.
We went on a journey. It was inevitable. An auditory pilgrimage to cities we fell in love with, which we marked with our shoes, which marked us. Three cities, to start: Beirut, New York, Paris.
Dear world,
It’s out.
This is an auditory trip, in music and words, with Alex Wakim and me. Come with us, somewhere gorgeous. Close your eyes and listen. And imagine, taste, smell, feel… Ready?
New York,
Baby,
running in
your suits and
tight, black dresses and
All Stars and Jordans and
bare feet, stilettos, Doc Martins
New York,
Baby,
chasing those
lights,
in cubicles,
on street corners,
in a band,
in student debt,
on a stage,
working on a novel,
burning red lights,
burning out in
yellow cabs, trains, limousines, Greyhound-buses promising rides
to the stars or
at least
the penthouse,
the corner office.
New York,
Darling,
Stop.
Look up.
That moment when,
light falls
and glistens, glitters, glides,
slides off the glass
panes…
Windows,
Water,
the emerald city shimmers
for a moment
at the speed of
New York.
Now,
Baby,
you can run.
Run like
you’re in trouble,
you’re in love,
you’re about to die,
Like,
you’re about to get caught,
lucky,
rich,
shot,
everything you ever wanted,
anything…
Get
a slice of pizza,
a glass of champagne at a bar with your last twenty bucks.a
Get picked up by a stranger whose touch is–
Impossibly,
Fragile,
soft.
New York,
sunlight-on-the-Hudson New York.
