Harlem River Drive
Tonight in the taxi it felt like the path of names. The city night is like the breaking of vessels. I counted to four and marked the distances. There seemed to be infinite green lights reflected in the puddles.
We live in a time whose motor hums the noises of collapse. Sparks scattered in order to lift the streetgrid up.
The little shifter was set on drive, the pale lighted interior, and three maps sent me across boroughs. A monster is made only of nerves. The driver is nothing without the 3,300 pounds of metal slicing the air.
One-tenth
Today in the taxi, I brought a man from midtown to someplace in Astoria near the airport. He asked me to take him round trip; we got to the address and he waited outside the place and someone came out and handed him a brown paper bag. The man gave the person some cash. Then we left; he asked me to drive him to the E train instead.
I don’t believe in saints or omens, early winds, or the pink luck of a sunset. I don’t see the Lord’s love with Her incisions and furry ornaments.
The vehicle is not just a way to get to the crime, but somehow bless whatever the journey needs. I use my braking and steering inputs to turn inward, or even to go down the uncertain road.
