The view from above the cityscape is vast. It moves
and feeds my spirit. Yet my hazel eyes look south
and touch the elongated Void, an unbearable emptiness
mixed with metallic dust and human debris, rushing
toward my private mansion like never-ending waves of
desert dunes; and soon my house and I will be buried
So I look north, away from Yesterday’s wasteland and
the eerie, ineffable images imprinted in my psyche;
I look away. Yet still, I see swirling particles, once
human, sailing through the toxic air, plummeting to
earth. I can’t bear to see such evil.
I saunter off on the High Line, a defunct railroad
structure resurrected as a celestial park above the
streets of Manhattan.
My journey begins after sunrise on a sultry August
morning. I stroll across a walkway surrounded by
From time to time, I stop and reflect. The freight
trains used to run here decades ago. Now, a
glorious landscape of greenery replaces the
antediluvian rail line.
Lost in reverie, I walk for hours and swallow
the divine dreamscape. Half-a-day seems
like a lambent flame brushing across my face
I drink effervescence. Time no longer exists.
And yet, after meandering through the
labyrinth of my mind and across walkways
and promenades, I turn around and head
I stop at the Chelsea Market Passage and sit
at a table. It’s almost sunset.
My eyes drift toward the Hudson River.
I anticipate a glorious sunset. Yet
surreptitiously, I gaze at the
I see what isn’t there. The emptiness
eats my spirit.
The view is vast and devastating.
Each time I look back,
I die again.