Sun storm globule, rain in giant droplets/strikes Chinatown, and dolorous wandering in grey/gives way to a hail of light perceived through a thin haze of duck fat
Firecrackers pop their secco revolts / of a New Year on water’s edge / as if the drums had been riden over and across / the vast belly of the Sound, twisting thro green ferries full of white automobiles and plastic bags strained with weight
Do all fauna cry before death? Because / this feast is some sacrifice to the future / and beholdens a truce / justified, for man is so skilled at killing man — that slow undertone of a groaning and ceaseless civil war rumbles in a train tunnel below — / that when egg rolls thick with shags of meat are cut /
and handed from one who has been fed into the hand of the hungry one /one with a blanket slung over like a bandolier/one who had been engorged in a garbage can near a pillbox of city loot / one who had crashed a window of Ming antiques / one who had shouted as a banshee named Cincinnati / one who had spat upon a gate / one who had wandered toothless into a Starbucks taste session / one who had wondered why if the Wifi and the chemtrails were linked / one who had returned from Vietnam / one who had imagined no more solace for the day than an ounce of some substance /
that, as the New Year dawned amid hobbled men and the reverb from gunpowdery joys, the rain shards broke and forever splintered upon the ability of one to wonder.
Adam Cathcart 