Waves of bitter reflection wash over an old, poor soul walking the concrete beaches of Manhattan along a great sea of invisible ruin. One step at a time, his old legs move like rubber, seemingly of their own free will. The old soul looks around in heaven, refraining from a trance caused by a long walk where his mind seemed to vanish from a busy reality all around. The hike of internal quietude has taken him from Brooklyn, across the Williamsburg Bridge into the very heart of the industrial world. He wonders momentarily where all the miles went because he does not remember them—just the solitude that can only be found way out in the open.
He thinks of recent earthquakes and floods in various places.
The old city is gone, so are the Middle American corn-fed types with blonde hair who once thrived here as waitresses and bicycle delivery persons. What he wouldn’t give see a hung white man like the type once so common here.
White bread was replaced by rice on the plate of middle class New York. Many city citizens are from the Far East now. Eye candy is rare. It is nothing like it once was on the streets, so again he escapes within and shuns the thought. The town, all over, is like China Town of old. Even in Chelsea, many of the gay boys have slanted eyes in 2011– the lesbians are mostly Korean too.
In Soho, north of Wall Street and along Broadway, where on average, at every other street corner there is a Starbucks, the “New York Times” is still sold in print for more than a cup of the new Tribute Blend which brings him to life and back to the swing of reality where bitches in high heels ruin the quiet thump of his rubber shoes along 7th Street.
Many storefront buildings remain empty, despite the promise that injected recovery is strong. Real Estate is booming again, at least on paper. AIG has paid back nearly all that was borrowed to keep pensions strong and the Yellow man seems not to care.
Again, the earthquakes and floods in various places come to mind, but he doesn’t care.