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!”