Dear Patti, I think Jesus died for my sins.

The city is a wild place

breeding the generation of dreamers

I worship

gods with electric guitars

oil paints

midnight ink

spoken word

Did you know what to do?

Brooklyn virgin

homeless

starving

could-have-been mother

The shepherd boy saved you

running together through the night

his acid trip a parade of color light and sound taste

his art a language you do not speak

but understand

his life now yours

The two of you

see like no other

love like no other

home is him

a room filled with treasures

made or found

rescued from the dark corners of youth

etched so deep within

years

cannot weather time

and time

is a forgotten concept

there is only now

bent over charcoal constellations

memory portraits

fertile words of the deceased

sapient enigma

vacant wonder

atlas of the great minds and vagabond souls

beings you chase

a child

reaching for the frayed hem of the black peacoat

worn by their prey

beings you feel for

dead or alive

you weep

you write

you paint

you love

he loves

but love reaches far beyond the realm of two

love is more than just love

a fragile feeling

a bond of promise

shelter

melancholic pain

You leave for Paris to find yourself

because he has found himself

knees in the earth

violence

lust

hate

inside

outside

stanger

lover

coalesce in past present and future

Street beggar of the music sphere

black crow perched on the beat wire

observing the in and out flow of musicians, singers, artists,

writers, poets, designers, magicians, wayfarers, leaders, followers

home is this

home is them

Spin through the halls

volatile angel hick

senseless sensation

dressed down in second-hand wonder

bug-eye blitzed in the bathroom

crawling across boardwalk

mid-day sky

industrial haven

brimming with savage essence and wayward entities

New York City

the idiosyncratic nucleus

for everything that is