Brooklyn, New York — Winter 1997
Driggs Avenue pond scum float in and out of bars, float up and down the asphalt with their attitudes firmly in their backpacks. They don their glasses just right, enough so that they appear how they want to appear: intellectual yet edgy but they are neither. Just another wandering tribe, lost and hardly irreverent. They have no reverence. You are studying the marks your feet make on the ground — deep, rich and so unbelievably esoteric it hurts your eyes. Maybe you should borrow a pair of those hipsters’ glasses so you can see for yourself what it really is. Through those lenses you would see nothing. Like they do.
Agents of Albion come out swinging swords to smite the ignorant ones. You are on their side. You just hope they know it before they cut you down with the rest of the tribe. You don’t walk among them yet you’re here. Snowflakes fall with a thud and you watch the dog walkers en route to Nirvana with hobnail eyes and snake-like tongues. Eurythmic. Duchamp’s spinning wheels on the spines of the naked and the dead. Snowflake dandruff falls into puddles of oil and urine. Brake the glass softly, you’re liable to wake the neighbors. Coke bottle wind chimes. How sweet it is. The one thing on your mind right now is her and you wonder if you’re even a blip on her radar.
Lie down in darkness and kiss the quiet time, answer to nothing, just drift under the shadows that await you and reveal the answers that always slip away and hide no matter how hard you try to take hold. Jump into the fray and kiss the broken stone. Obliteration of thought and feeling and you’re well on your way towards Nirvana. You’d like to allow her to join you but the distance is too great. Underneath this shadow cover your mind kisses nothing while sirens wail in the distance and the city screams. Time to turn over and bury your head into the nothingness. You are ready for just about anything. You suggest she go and see it for herself. It is truly amazing.