Brief words to NYC, Bowery Poetry Club

I’m running away again.
At least it feels when I’m saying it
but that single true rhythm sways
in a way that’s more stable
than the frustrated chaos
I’m hanging with -
that’s
Projected on brick walls
Lowering me past
East Side halls,
past 5th st. lofts,
past fixed gear lifestyles
and fear fixed futures.

New York’s been that sand
that’s trickles down at its leisure;
But when the hourglass breaks
it forms a rockless foundation
that looks a lot like a beach,
with sunshine for good measure.
But the principle of pleasure states
the id should be questioned.

And maybe I’m young
listening to my dreams.
Or maybe I’m Jung
collecting unconscious things
that serve to raise a resume
to something more beautiful
that can’t be razed nor
destroyed like
8-story
Savars
in Bangladesh.
-And then as fresh
as dew drops and morning breaths
my I wakes up
and to questions
placed in stanzas up
answers,
But this time it’s me who advances
with a time and a place;
i look down at my ticket -
my race leaves at 8.
Don’t know when I’ll get back yet
and sure leaving is great,
but I just hope I’m right and
my me
might with spirit
have their embrace.
— P. Kalachev