The price of admission

is misleading

b’cuz no one knows

where we go.

Regardless,

we long for admission

and its validating adage:

“The journey

is not where

you land, but

how you arrive,”

(or some vaguely similar bullshit).

And Jeff Buckley is dead.

And Benny is dead.

And Barry are dead.

And somehow,

the repetition of, “Back in NYC,”

answers all my questions.

Or,

at least,

the poetics of its sentiment

reminds me I love them.

And we all choose which porcupine to cuddle:

Don’t we?

Perhaps fate is a chain-link

cause/effect of,

“If this/then that.”

We are birthed

from protective pressures

within utero’s love manifest

into brackish backwater’s

magic glut

of divisive sublime design

as it nurtures learned indifference

of unsuspecting nascent souls.

I’m… “Back In NYC!”