My second city
04.23.03 - 11:36 p.m.
In my living room, I imagine little men creeping from beneath their morning paper, or their epileptic compaq monitor, or their tragic mountain of academic canon, or their haphazard hovel of erotica, or the lipstick branded coffee cup, yawning about to set out in their bustling, tunnel vision way bouncing off each other, scattering in random trajectories until they convene to tap into a scheme that’s a little bit grander. The mottled array the rich concoction culminates into a metropolis no other than myself, so that I can creep into the world. The one Outside my living room Where real men churn about, floating on the city’s arteries: the red line, the blue line, and all the colors in-between, into the financial heart, to pound over the fleshy avenues where the skyscrapers spike out like outstretched limbs. The Second City is ignorant of my second city. They are unaware that my slum of dirty laundry, my monolith of textbooks, is within theirs and surrounding theirs, that at times I can feel the city pulse in time with my own pulse and I yearn to spoon her, cradle her, like a long forgotten lover, to graft me upon her like |