your huddled masses

New York I am going to climb right up in your lap and press my face to your grimy heart. Where five hundred million faces have been imprinted before. The photobomber in your every selfie sweet New York. Asking scarves of passersby do you know who invented ‘photobomber’. Who invented ‘selfie.’ Brilliant language. Melted together and down in such scaldrons as New York, hell’s diner’s kitchen with menus that could make you cry.

Chickens reared in tenements and boiled in oil with feathers still in place here and there, wispy in their tender pimpled armpits. Chickens crumbed and larded like the pilgrim invaders who thought to teach those natives a god or two in a sky already crowded with gods. Chicken homefried and served with waffles, side of fries, with bacon, with maple syrup, bitter greens. Those greens are grey. Everything green is grey. Everything khaki is red, white, and blue.

New York I will be the umpteenth mascot for the day, with fur between her ears. We’ll be two tourists without their guns. That’s if we make it all across the ocean of Atlantis city sunk for its sin in a droning tube with nothing holding us up, my hundredth flight, the one not piloted by a male-pattern-entitlement first officer whose girlfriend left him so he watches everybody board, three carrying babies, and decides again: I will do it. I will drag the whole world down.

Spectators at a suicide aflame: the headline, neckline, wasteline, wantline. Today we will cross the oceans intact I pray, sift on that trash heap of lilies who reap and weave incessant labour nonstop and who sleep in the street if at all and have built a Museum to the idea of Sex. A green pond. New York. I’ll be in you and you’ll be you. I’ll be dancing: the song soon, soon, soon. (That’s Korean for now. Now. Now.)