Water street – there is a bar where I go to have a beer or two. The bartender there knows me so he usually brings out a fresh bowl of nuts. The waitress sits with me and talks to me about her personal life – she must think I am a psychologist or a psychic or something.

The other customers look at me with a suspecting attitude – as if I am a judge, cop or perhaps they think I am sleeping with their wives. I don’t know any of them and judging by what they look like I don’t even want to know their wives.

Across from the bar there is a clothing store – they sell clothing for the extremely skinny or matchstick shaped people. They employ these pretty college age girls there who know how to set off a spark by telling all the customers just how hot they look in the red coat or the green beret.

Che Guevara is making a comeback or perhaps he is misunderstood – he murdered and created an open air prison now.ignorant children and stupid adults wear his face on their hearts for inspiration.

Down the stairs lives a girl named Kitten. That’s really her name and she can purr with the best of them. I go down to see her so she can read my eyes – but she is busy with a giant fireman who is standing on a stool to change a light bulb but it just keeps on turning.

Down the block is the cathedral of the broken hearts – men in black and women wearing veils walk or sit silently waiting for the bells to ring. A silent man with a white shirt and a pink bandanna – is handing out flyers for the big comeback. But no one takes any and the ones who do toss it away down the street.

Presidential motorcade crashes into the river and a helicopter ride is being offered for free. Elton John is playing piano on a Old Dock street as a barge wades on by.

Fog is crawling in – subway trains roar on the bridge and six Koreans are stretching outside of Saint Anne’s warehouse.

Water Street – “no parking signs” as solicitations are solicited by solicitors with yellow skin and tight pants. Across the way some sort of anonymous meeting has just let out of the basement of a church – you can tell by the smokers and the coffee cups in their hands that something is ending or perhaps beginning.

Children are crying but the adults have no compassion. Shots ring out and tears fall – strong words are shouted but they say it’s just a staged performance.

Up the stairs is the entrance to the movie show – the door was left ajar by the janitor who likes to smoke on that fire escape while a movie is ending. Down the street is a nail salon, a bagel store and a bank. Newspapers are sold in a stand along with lottery tickets and aspirins.

Under the Brooklyn Bridge there is a sense of constant movement – a time traveling port towards somewhere – when? To the left there is a young lady laughing as she talks on her phone walking her dog – she is pretty and has a soft laugh to go along with a rottweiler that keeps the people at bay.

Onto the Cadman Plaza where there are tossed coffee cups and eyelashes; someone is shouting that the end is near as another child is born on the subway tracks somewhere down below.

Abstract words – like lines drawn on a sheet of tree skinned fabric – meaning is there somewhere – can you see it? It’s what you think it is not what it truly is.