I agree when you tell me the world is a mixed back of tricks.
Of course, it is.
Look around.
Do you see?

There was a man selling tickets to the resurrection on Vesey Street and Church the other day. I told him I had to work that day, but maybe I’ll catch my salvation on the flip side.
Who knows?

I agree there are beautiful things, all around us. Like, say the way sunrise looks when I am driving downtown on the FDR and then heading west on Fulton.
I have reasons for my connection to both the East River and The Hudson, of course.
Both sides of Manhattan have seen me through different periods of my life.

I have always had this thing for sunrise.
Always . . .
I suppose I’ve had this since, —I don’t know, I guess for as long as I can remember.

Maybe this is because sleep and I never seem to connect very well.
Maybe insomnia and I were too close and the ability to sleep was too distant.
But the sunrise and I have always had this “thing” together.
I know it.

The sense of smell has got to be one of the most interesting senses of all. For example, the smell of honeysuckles reminds me of a time when I was in grade school. Or the smell from low tide at the beach reminds me of a fishing trip I took out to a place called Shinnecock canal. I caught my first winter flounder there and this is one of my best memories of all.

You never forget the smells from places. I know this to be true, and while above smells that I mentioned are good, there are smells from places in my memory, which are ungodly to say the least and cruel to say it best.

You’ll never forget the smell –

The strangest part is I am not sure I would recognize him.
That is, if I ever saw him again.

At the same time, we pass each other every day.
We see each other all the time.
All day.

I can’t say that I know what he was thinking, even though I know exactly what he was thinking.
I know exactly who he is because “he” is me and I am “him.”

I was a young man once and playing the dangerous game of cat and mouse and chicken too. My stance was imperfect at best and yet, I tied my best too pull off a look that made me seem bigger than I was.

What does it mean to be wild anyway?
Is it wild to say that there was a time when I was fine to defy the world against me?
Was it wild of me to feel the music in some late-night place in the middle of New York City.
Or was it wild to feel rage or have an angst that left me on fire?

I think it is good to be wild. I think this is something the soul needs; to go wild or absolutely crazy or to stay up late or be out in the world without care and to toss your usual cares to an abandoned feeling, as if nothing else matters but the moment at hand.