there's a reason why i don't go here often, the emerald city; i don't make enough money to do it. there's a reason why my soul is energized when i'm on her brooklyn bridge, and there's a reason you can't just turn to anyone and share it. you can't chum it up with healthy joggers who stare at your gut like you sat on an air hose. there's a reason the smiling girl at the bagel shop doesn't charm you like the rest. i've always wanted one of those to drop her apron and walk along to ask what made me me. to be enamored with my history and why i think as i do. i have to ask for a napkin.

the poignancy of peering into the brush strokes of a rembrandt is sublime if the guard doesn't have his tongue cocked. "stay back from the picture sir." well, it's not a picture and my soul just returned unto death.

to be winded and sweaty from appreciation, to take a picture of a child playing at a fountain. i want to be that child, i don't want that child. to have my calves knot up means i need to sit, don't slide your pocketbook away, i'm tired.

to walk the bridge, to look upon the countless hours of labor that erected the capital of the world. don't block my view, don't walk near my teetering tripod. hey knocker flaunter, i wasn't even looking. the carpathia went past here with survivors of a great tragedy, where did it dock? i want to cry for them. go put on some clothes.

one day i'll wear a three piece and strut down madison avenue. people will open doors for me and call me sir. i'd rather be the child in the fountain, you'd rather i be something that doesn't take notice of such things.