Kevin Young

In the streets of a thousand sadnesses with broken boots, yes... my boots are broken, unsuited to my mishaped feet. Peeking into a world that was hithero denied me. The weather matching my dirty old soul. Umbrellas opening like perverted flowers , like volcanoes, like shooting stars, like you.There's tears on these streets, enough to reflect a watercoloured other world under our feet. Where the lights of stores and restaurants blur and merge and drink from each other. Where your heart feels like raw exposed meat, stuck on a stick in the ground- every burst of wind and heat of sun like a psychological attack on a poor piece of flesh that knows nothing about psychology anyway.Stories of the street, of China and Pakistan, of Highlanders and Ghurkas, of casinos and couples and homelessness. Of untouchable women and arrogant men who never create, only consume and never go hungry.Sunday afternoon with the sun behind my building shining on the guru's left side counting to seven, wondering when the next one will be. With the sad sweet Saturday night gone when it once began with almost unbearable anticipation- only to retire with my ephemeral expectations shattered like an Indonesian Ketchikan in the streets of a Javanese shantytown.Walks of shame past my window, thoughts of blame, fantasies of fame in each souls shuttered mind. Poor inexplicable and inexpressible thoughts with solutions to problems long past and unresolved and now unresolvable.Faz told me that in Vienna you can hear the children giggling in the streets- and the women ware nothing but the finest garments of silk and velvet. There they dream of tsunami waves chasing you thru' an unknown city in a jeep. Stopping only for food, sleep and love. Then jumping on and riding away again with the waves on your tail. Me running thru New York City to see you busking with an electric guitar and microphone in a white blouse and blue jeans, more make-up than usual. I ran past you into a door two numbers up- into a maze of Morrocan tapestries, Abdel boy in the corner smoking his black. Wondering where you went... I want to go back onto the street- but when I do it has changed and i dont know it anymore.All the while Faz was on this shemanic, hedonistic kind of trip that they havent come onto yet, and he tells me that theres a steeple and a crane up colebrooke lane, theres a leaky pipe and a bin but thats just the shape hes in when he's standing in the crossing- one half of his body on the north side of the equator and one half on the south.What we've lost i hope we never have to lose again- I dont know if i said that or someone else, but its true. All you see in peoples eyes these days are guilt, remorse, suspicion and agony.This is the unspeakable fraud of my thoughts, my words and meanings stolen, then given to you