Manhattan in the mist,
neon romance in the rain,
my bare feet soaked to the bone,
tracing the sad steps of heroes,
I stand under the theatre bill board,
with coffee and enthusiasm,
and watch the world’s busy nomads rush.
Times Square is like one large
smoking electric dragon,
a brutal, Islamic paradise.
a man called Chester-The-Joke-Man,
comes up to me and sells me a smile
for a simple “donation.”
I just got hustled.
he hustled me because he knew
I was waiting to be hustled.
I came to New York
just to be hustled.
I came to Times Square
to meet the lawless,
who are all to happy
to oblige my textbook romanticisms.
I laugh and finish my coffee,
walk back to the Waldorf,
my heart leaping with pride.
I want to go die, go tell Kerouac.
Jack I did it, I got hustled on Times Square too,
when I was feeling ashamed,
when I was drenched,
when I was hungry and with a caffeine panic.
Jack, I made it!
I too am now worthy of a modern novel.