It's not always Sunny in Philadelphia

Beginning of Doubt @ Live8
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Little mirages of water pool about in the distance,
Shimmers of air hang above the black top,
Scents of cut grass and flowers hang in the breeze,
Your eyes as clear and green as summer leaves,
Time stands still,
Your vision burned into the eternal sky,
The crowd surges by us,
And still time ceases to be,
Amidst this sea of humanity you are all I see,
A beacon, shining so bright as to rival the sun.
Yet in me there is a growing shadow,
Threatening to devour subtle vagaries of light,
Yet still a beacon you shine,
Even in this distance: this doubt.


27th Street  and Poplar.
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The apartment is dark,
But the air is filled with the solid hum of electricity,
And dull glow of sickly yellow street lamps. 
Sirens wail in the distance countering the rush of trains,
Bars across the windows weave shadowed patterns on the bricks.
Colour flashes through the room, the lights from passing cars,
Their stereos like hushed voices, straining to be heard.
Sheets lay about the bed like discarded shrouds,
Their owners shambling out of the bar across the street.
The red blink of the clock reads 2:38am,
She’s asleep.
Blankets wrapped neatly around her,
Hair spread on the pillow,
Odd shadows angle her face,
Destroying delicate planes of symmetry.
Slow drawn-out rumblings come from out side,
Trolley whistles, and snakes on by,
She stirs.
“Come to bed” she asks.
I lay close to her, listening to her breathe.
My hand tangles with hers.
There in the dark apartment,
As sirens wail and trains rush in the shadowy distance,
And windows stare at the world with dark eyes,
I begin to fall, into sleep, out of love.

Somewhere between 15th &16th on Bainbridge St .
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Sunlight drowns the city in golden mists,
Buildings shimmer like cut crystal in this early morning glow,
Cold air floods the bed room,
Sharp smell of city pulled along with the air,
The floor radiates cold through my feet,
It groans and cracks with every step,
Just as the door cries as it swings into the darkened hallway.
Plaster walls give shadows a place to pool,
Creating the look of white crests peaking from a sea of ink,
Only the small window spills light into that sea,
Like the eye of some god; casting its gaze on creation.
I dress; and go about the morning ritual returning to the bed room,
I kiss her fore head,
She wakes,
“Can you stay?”
“I have work; have to catch the early train.”
I rub her back and sit closer to kiss her head,
“I’ll miss you today”
She says as she falls back to sleep.
Will you really? When I’m gone,
That thought echoes in my head filling the silence of my mind.

17th and JFK
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Cold bites at exposed flesh,
As the wind cuts with a knifes edge,
Steam from grates rises lazily adding to the fog of hot breath and car exhaust.
The whole of the city is cloaked in grey,
Front door closed with a definite finality,
Breaking the silence of the morning.
The walk to the train station seemed a life,
Those ten blocks were never longer,
The city more desolate; like it read your thoughts,
And decided to mirror your emotions,
Thousands of tiny blank eyes stare from buildings, cars and passing strangers,
An entire gallery of onlookers to your quietly hidden conclusion,
The train platform feels a stage for your sorrow,
The incessant hum of fluorescent lights a choir,
Their stark light: that of God’s accusing eye.
Your phone vibrates, jerking you back out of thought.
“Hello”
“I love you”
“I love you too babe”
“No Jim I really love you.”
“I know, that’s why this is hard.”
“I’ll miss you today.”
“I know. I’ll miss you.”
Air breaks screamed, punctuating the phone calls end,
Train doors slam shut, leaving you lost,
Will she really miss me when I am gone?
That thought again hangs in the air, mocked by the light at the tunnels end.

Part one of Memoirs of Philadelphia 
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That smell of asphalt and rain lingers in the air.
Trapped by the glass and steel walls,
And made solid in the shadowed parts of the mind.
Triggering fevered memories of summers spent in the city,
Long lazy days filled by hectic hours of nothing,
And those steamy nights filled with the riotous silence of us.
It’s there in those nights where I lost my self in you.
It is in those furious bouts of silence where my voice shattered,
Where it failed; against the strength of you.

The Nostalgia of 27th & Poplar : Part 2 of Memoirs of Philadelphia
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Its 2 am.
The clock blinks from across the room.
I drift in and out of sleep.
As the window fan hums.
Thunder rolls out in the distance; announcing the storm.
The smell of rain mingles with that sharp smell of city,
From your bed all I can see is the red sign on the North Star bar.
Its neon flickers; as the blades from the fan cut its light,
Throwing wild shadows at weird angles.
Transforming familiar objects into nightmares,
Seen in that state of beautiful zombiefacation that sleep brings.