Home

It's been a little over a week since moving back to New York. This will be my third time living here, now in Brooklyn. 

It feels familiar yet completely foreign. Lots of emotions are are being stirred up. Lots of responsibilities. Lots of reflection and realizations that I've been a spoiled, entitled, self-centered, half-man in too many moments of my life. 

Last week, I went for a lengthy bike ride before finding myself sitting along the Hudson River. I wrote this:

You're back.
With grease on your face
and grease on my fingers.
This city is yours.
Just as much as
anyone and everyone. 

As much as the millionaires and money men.
As much as the rose sand on the Hudson.
And the lone sea birds that cross the crystal candied sky. 

You have lived
nowhere else
longer. 

Tycho and garbled english, 
pulling directions
rom either side of your face,
mixed with familiar sounds and songs that
don't belong
to anyone in particular. 

You rode past old homes.
You rode past old haunts. 
You rode past old moments
that take on
new life. 

You're back in the city
that takes it all
and gives it all. 

If you give your all. 

Youth flys by
with sounds of joy.

Why do you have to love this city?

Because its dirty,
and rough? 
So are you. 

Because it can feel so empty
and filled with soul
at the same time?
So are you.

You
hate to love
this city
as much as
you
love to hate
this city. 

Because you
hate to love
yourself
as much as you
love to hate
yourself. 

Every moment
you die. 

Every moment
you're born again

Every rotation of the sun
is a pump of your legs. 

Climbing the bridges
on two wheels
that connect
the old
to
the new. 

The spit of the kids,
the bite of an apple.

The glub, glub, glub, 
of the water
on which floats
this magic isle. 

It's as much yours
as you want it to be.