synfull

the streets around me/the streets surround me

walking around my Hollywood neighborhood streets
free newspapers that no one will ever read become the trash
that fits snugly against the curb and the black asphalt
an old couch of outdated design worn down to its wooden frame
remains a stain on the sidewalk since I have moved in
there are three teenage boys speaking Armenian, gesturing wildly
a group near the Thailand plaza is stopped for a Thai Town tour
cars wait to turn into the main streets as a stooped over old woman crosses slowly,
one foot at a time, carrying plastic grocery bags
off-duty taxi-drivers gather near their vehicles, smoking cigars
far-off are the sounds of helicopters and sirens

there is a corner, Hollywood and Western, where the MTA buses come constantly
but this rail-thin, dark-skinned man with an old flannel shirt, and a bushy beard
seems always to be standing at the stop
he doesnt ask for change, talk to himself, or strike up strange conversations
he just stands there, with his hands behind his back
and whenever I cross his path, I always think I hear him mumble something to me

this is my world, but it is not
I was not born here, I was not raised here
I have a car, and at any time I can drive far away from here
but I am drawn to here
the smells and the sounds
spices and meats and cooking, something new
gravel and tire and concrete, movement
here I feel both alive and anonymous
part of the energy, yet totally devoid of judgment
because no one laughs at that old tattered couch, rotting away on the sidewalk
because no one asks the young Armenian boys what they are talking about
because no one asks the rail-thin man with the flannel shirt and the bushy beard
why he just stands at the bus stop all day

there is life here, but it just goes on
continues, struggles, flows
as the crowd literally runs from the MTA bus to the subway to catch their connection
they do not see me, unshaven and overweight, in yesterdays clothes
I both feed off of and add to their energy, or rather, its energy, the city
the helicopters, the traffic noise
they are virtually indistinguishable from my shuffling feet
from the beat of my hip-hop music or my TV
when I turn it up during my favorite shows and the window to my apartment is open
drowning out the noise of someone digging through broken glass
in my buildings dumpster, hoping to collect some cans

these streets do not have to love me
we just kind of vibe and become one, holding hands
one new hole-in-the-wall take-out joint, street-Ive-never-been-down
bar, corner-liquor-store-to-get-a-pack-of-smokes at a time
Im a ghost haunting the heart of a ghost made up partly of my energy
a presence within a presence living invisibly inside
walking the streets of my Hollywood neighborhood
i too am haunted
these streets around me are a presence within my presence
these streets surround me
and now Im
feeling more alive