The Zen of the City
The zen of the city may not exist; its
brick too busy, the fattened arteries of its
avenues too corroded with the
marbling of muds and snows, too
gaseous with its spit-and-chokes.
It is a melody too faint, strained to catch
amidst the Bluetooth beat of Wall Street wings,
of bodies pecking pigeonry, our
use of public transport like some
gift we commune, to offer, the Earth.
But I’ve seen him, revealed, in the citric
glow of a Sun breaking city’s seam, upturned,
among the littered alarm, like a
note’s sudden harmony hooked from
heavy-lunged dissonance, here-and-gone.
And I have felt its reverb, in a
ribbon-bodied high, in a stein-warmed
belly, too questionable in their
proposed impurities to dismiss, but too
greedy in their resolve to sustain.
So I wage burned pursuit, in the
exorcism of a run, in the dog-eared wisdoms
of others, the sweat of blacklit voodoo, the
practiced calm of my crowded room, the telling of an
unflattering self, in search of form.
The zen of the city may not exist, too
erect, too obsessed; but within its
tint, I’ve caught quick glimpse of
something’s wave-and-recede lowly lulling
from behind a strangely familiar surface.
All rights reserved to Nikolas James Perez