Walk long steps to the river, big beats in your ears and fresh air in your lungs, a whole year without dancing in your legs, you move like your knee caps are fireworks. Walk past the apartment that calls your name, blow it a kiss, I haven't told you yet but I'm gonna be with you, peel off outer layers in mild January weather, do you remember freezing on a Brooklyn New Year's corner years ago? No, me neither, I don't get cold anymore.
I write the words expected of me, I pair together the appropriate moves of a person who knows what they're doing, but do you want to know a secret? None of that shit matters. They are only a means to an end, and the end is inevitable anyways because we will all die one day.
What matters are words, are dreams and art and poetry, are the colorful curlicues of what it is to be human that refuse to charge properly for their gifts, do you know if I was penniless I'd still live with my head in the clouds, the evidence is here with the mist on my eyebrows don't step to me without better counter arguments than that. I was set on fire by the great beat and I was sculpted once in the sweet poetry and I can try this suit on for size all you like it still isn't going to fit my run-on sentences and I know New York looks quiet now, looks dark in the night but I have been here a long time and let me tell you
New York is always on fire
somewhere.
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