BROOKLYN

brooklyn is very boring. it is not dangerous or loud. there is no racism, robbery or rape. there are just people, buildings, garbage, machines, bushes/trees, and dry streets. there are no floods. the streets are relatively dry. some houses and backyards are a catastrophe or organization. but it all fits. it is tight. people rub and interact succinctly and essentially; there is no ponderous interaction, and if so, only mistakenly. there are sharp edges, you avoid them. there are guys making violent gesticulations, women singing loudly to themselves, looking unhealthily.

the problems that are spoken of in the news rain on brooklyn lightly. it's not a down pour. people talk about the economy with their arms crossed showing you the sides of their faces as they look down the block, something they're used to: they're used to a lot of countries being represented. they're used to expensive lego-like architecture - and old architecture too, bronze statues of the parks, huge greening horses and spires and globes with archaic compasses, stone bridges and tunnels, decayed plots of woods that will never bounce back, emotionless cops, people burdened by dogs, people that look like dogs, people obviously lonely, people in groups of too many people, too many children at schools, cars driving too fast past schools, highways like a wrinkle - tucked amazingly between blocks and avenues - they're used to sound vanishing and appearing from way too close and sometimes skipping in from surprisingly far away.

it's not all that interesting. you commute and fill your apartment with just what you need. you don't bring your life in from wherever you came from, just parts of it. brooklyn's just a boring maze, a tier lower from a 'world class' maze, manhattan. it's not that interesting and i curse myself. i say, may i live in some interesting times. may brooklyn fill with hudson and sound and estuary and may brooklyn give birth to canoes and mattress rafts. may i nudge my neighbors with the but end of a paddle and beseech them: do you want that? do you want that starbucks swim. that torrent of cappuccino?
may brooklyn become a battle ground, a place for young people to climb on eachother's backs for carrots and broccoli. i should need a bunker for tofu, hot sauce, and avocados. i should put poetry up on the walls as novelty scare tactics. i should float crap stained canvases down my block. i should float a futon down my block with hair dye bleeding a train. i should have this idea that brooklyn will flood and carry it with me as a curse, so that as i grow old and dreamy, falling asleep at a desk in manhattan, i feel old and dreamy as i wake up, having to shake it off me.
it'd be perfect for a flood - brooklyn - intrigue, incest, and rape. statues with bronze waves, and billows of film strips - the dark then light then dark of a show, the sporadic eternity of it, so it's never dark, but horrible and interesting.
it'd be perfect, a perfect river bed, for bored water to paralyze the vestigial extension, where human waste synergies man to his infrastructure and we float like mad natives with Mohawks, arrows splitting our muscle taut brown skin.