The Way Home

I have no home here. My home will be in the dirt. My home will send the green,soft infant arms of seeds up to break the surface, unlike this decietful city. My home will be quiet minerals, and slow. I like the idea of a slow home.

In a taxi at four in the morning again. On my way to thirty-fourth street I see a man in tan shorts and a white polo shirt standing with his arms inside the torso and his head tucked partially below the collar. He has no shoes on, just filthy, white athletic socks. He is standing in a large entranceway to an apartment building to shield himself from the bitter wind. It is about twenty-two degrees. He must have gotten locked out. Kicked out. I would have stopped and helped if... I should have stopped and helped. Offered to make a call, something. I didn't though. Down through the midtown tunnel then over the Pulaski bridge into Greenpoint. I notice some billboards have changed. Billboards larger than any flag that any country has ever raised.

I have a craving for seaweed and wild rice with sesame oil.

The taxi driver is sleepy and I can see his eyes in the rear view mirror straining to stay open - the lids like elevator doors, like subway car doors, slowy shutting, then bursting open again, startled. He runs almost every stop sign. I should say something, but I don't. He falls asleep at the next light, and somehow I arrive safely.

Tonight I feel as though I'm riding a monorail through the exhibit of life at some theme-park where there is no cause for alarm. Just cruise along and observe through the glass, not touching the displays. Is this some form of mutilated faith?

While leaving the cab, I find a wallet full of credit cards on the seat. I think about the computer I want, the couch I could get, and the exact sewer I would throw it down when I am done with it. Instead, I call the woman and tell her. She is tired and thankful. I say that I was tempted to use them, but decided against it. She laughs, thinking I was joking.