Gazing out my apartment window at the East River, at dusk, at the play of lights from high-rise buildings on the currents of the darkening waters…how I longs to part of it all…to know the release that comes from the embrace of such beauty and vastness. Earlier today, As I walked up First Avenue, I overheard the East River bandying taunts at the Chrysler Building. "You are but a phantom…I have been taking this route to the Atlantic for hundreds of thousands of years," spoke the river, "but you arose just a split second ago…Your presence is as fleeting as a puff of smoke. What then could be the cause of your arrogance --you poseur, you manque? You are but a phantom: Though you swoon in the self-referential conceit of your concrete casting, when I blink and when I return my gaze your way, you are rubble. "I am on my way to merge my song with the song of all the oceans of the earth…with all the raindrops and ground water and mud puddles…with every water molecule on the planet. What is the reason for your incomprehensible pride, lonely tower…you smirk at the indifferent sky when you should be weeping tears of stone? "Yet: My water vapors, borne on passing clouds, caress you, thus I am compelled to love you, despite my titanic rage."
Posted on: Sat, 10 Aug 2013 00:55:47 +0000
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