Fellatial solace … Gloved in blowjob hands of peace. My streets are live, they pulse in code! With secret winks and messages which say they’re only dozing … ’cause Manhattan never sleeps, of course, but rests sometimes like I can’t.
Away downtown, my Christ Times Square! I’m photographing homeless people … Hungry, pissed-off, out there types and heinous Zero Overpaids (the problems and solutions which extinct each other daily). And the sex and drugs and nightlife crawling bat-like into slumber, as the morning breeze begins to hum and day begins to blow …
Down further still, Sixth Avenue, the flower shops are singing. Winking wide and hurling deft, stout orders all about … There’s trucks and vans a-hum and squeaking … racist, pig-thunk news shows splitting wounded, AM air … and garbage trucks and window men, and newspaper delivery vans.
A breakfast cart still further down, a little queue of mendicants: it pants, and wants its daily bread. A giant box of rolls is rent, a bag of bagels buttered …
There’s clouded, waking sky for contrast, sunning up these bloodshot souls …
I’m safe and all at home here, wizened friend to their old scene.
(night) notes from CENTRAL PARK
by Jeff Glovsky
more Word(s) in Progress Compendium: Selections from Underwear Woman Digs the Sea