Thursday, April 2, 2009

Running Arabesque

Much of what makes this metropolis spectacular
is blindly given to her by those fascinating folk who only
vaguely know they’re here. Such unsuspecting ornaments! –
all breathing, veering, seething, studiously ignorant
of every incremental fusing city tactic, her impediments
of untoward wheezes, sneezes, freezes, sleaze – and all her
other random difficulties, easinesses – none of which
has conscious meaning to her self-involved half-sentient

citizens; yet all of which somehow conduce to their
extravagantly bold careening through her avenues and streets
and alleys – corners, sudden darknesses and bleakly
bright comeuppances that strike with a sadistic paroxysmal
glee; the way a knee butts crotch, slick hand removes a wallet
from a pocket, crucial bus refuses to arrive, the way
New York contrives so under-handedly to toss
together every bum and yuppie like so many crumbs from

some half-eaten feast: the way Manhattan’s human beings
seem completely to exist for her as colorful quaint species
to deploy: creatures to partake of her, and to be taken by her
at the least whim in her vast appalling soul. So that
she makes again, again the same exacting whole of us,
and her: effulgent masses streaming madly, complicatedly:
a humming onward rush of outlined ambiguities –
fashionable chaos – elegant burlesque: a running arabesque.


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