of folk songs already sung,
it is perfectly silent.
well as silent as New York can be.
there is always that whirling-humming,
a jumble of a million sounds,
that most experienced New Yorkers.
learn to block out.
I'm in the cab of an old pick up truck,
in Forest Hills, Queens.
I know what you are thinking:
what the fuck?
gotta help my brown cousin
move something called a television.
I've been illegally parked,
and waiting for almost an hour.
I am the BQE,
and all these mirrors in this truck
are strangers with funny-looking eyes.
for some reason there are crayons
littering the floor of the passenger side
of my cousin's 1992 Nissan.
it is red.
I finally find WFUV on the dials,
crank it up,
and get out and draw with the crayons
on the desmond-like parking lot pavement.
I draw V-shaped birds
on the horizon.
Also, next to the waterfowl,
I write:
I WILL NEVER WEAR A V-NECK SHIRT...UNLESS IT HAS BLOOD ON IT.
Then I draw an apple with a hole in it,
and instead of a worm coming out of it,
there is a space ship shooting towards
stars that I call nicks.
believe it or not.