there’s no place to sleep…no address nor zip code to place in the marked box…..

it is New York…the kitchen of this new home called America….built on soft land…replaced with layer upon layer of concrete….steele…fake breasts….commerce and plastic pieces, Plastics Benjamin….plastics….

all is disposable…easily gotten rid of with no evidence left behind…just shred it….

this kitchen…this cocina…this cucina…a full gas range for some….a hot plate for others….the constant search for food….

from Arroz con Pollo of the PR’s to fries with gravy at The White Horse Tavern….buck slices…and on every corner….hallal….hallal….hallal…grilled…seasoned with white yogurt and hot sauce…

standing…eating….contemplating pornography while lights blink…cabs honk…and girls stroll by….lick your lips honey….gloss goes a long way….

red shimmering into the night leaving stains on businessmen’s flys….high atop the Port Authority in a parking lot….

a scarlet shameful stain for all to see….glowing like a neon swizzle stick….wiped away by a monogramed handkerchief given to him by a Jersey wife….these sins we pay for….

guilt felt on Christmas morn as packages of bobbles…bangles…bright shiny things are opened…

and tomorrow….we’ll do it again..the rich will do it again…as will the poor…..lead us not into temptation…but deliver us….

yes…deliver us….