A Letter to the East Coast from the West

I know that I am far away,

yet I can not forget you.

Your coolness

and the way you lay your history out on old brick walls with stolen paint.

Your hot tears, that stream through the gutters.

I recall every broken down asylum that still stands as a reminder 

that you may never again be free.

I call to you now!

Arms waving in the air.

I need you.

For,

you are more real, than these sun lit streets

and big toothed smiles of

"how do you do?"

The conversation here lacks your grace

and those awkward mood swings 
that sway from that pendulum of love to hate.

Don’t get me wrong,

I’ve been healing here.

Toiling with the earth,

eating plump fruit from the trees.

Seeing this and that…., 

but really, let me get to the point.

I'm afraid losing my edge.

Here I am hidden away from the violence

and the politics of the American gun,

and believe it or not

...... I do,

I miss them.

Here

I am surrounded by protesters

 with picket signs.

Enough

 to light a glorious bonfire,

that only you,

can help me light.

Here

I am longing for your strong voice,

those harsh tones.

The use of FUCK! 

as a holy punctuation.

I miss all your dark personalities, your cemetery stares.

Midnight sips of whiskey at bus stop street signs with who ever is there.

All the high school kids fucking in graveyard excitement.

New York, I miss you.

Cowboy,

 Sherlie,

 all of Henrey Street

Talkin Richard, that beauty silhouetted in neon light,

 flashing from an alley way bar.

I need you now.

New York,

I miss your noise....

I miss your voice.