Postcard Papercut

Postcard Papercut

I’ve returned to the cold Metropolis a few hundred yards from my old familiar nest.

I’m immediately stricken with a calloused fever; The kind that makes the artificial elastic properties of my face contract to frying pan proportions.

Every muscle becomes redefined with an industrial flair, like the metallic views I’ve seen captured in the scratched plastic window of the Path train.

Some innate, instantaneous, xManhattanite defense mechanism I suppose.

Powerful enough to allow you to leap over homeless people.

Unconsciously stupid enough to allow you to strut down uncharted neighborhoods and “Where the hell is the train I’m going to be pureed” subway platforms.

But then;

just as a thousand immigrants flaunting briefcases full of imitation watches descend from the heavens,

a pinch of humanity touches us all.

The door held wide for the toothless decayed old man, the city dwellers who assist the fallen dirty water hotdog vendor, or those stimulating conversations you find yourself engaged in as

you waltz through one pornographic, violent, psychotic scene after another, playing the much underrated part of the bystander.

And for a brief moment I realize;

the smell of decaying matter is balanced out by the window box gardens and the freshly baked breads and that I am now sending postcards from the place I once lived.

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