Give me the noise
and the madness
and the energy
and exuberance
of my home.

Give me buildings
that scrape the sky,
give me crowds
that choke the streets,
give me
nuts & bums &
purple-haired students
& wild-eyed painters
& street performers
& "de la Vega" on the sidewalks.

Give me the songs
of the street musicians,
of the late night jazz joints,
of the raucous outdoor concerts,
of the noisy indoor plumbing,
of the screeching trains,
of the honking taxis,
of the church hymns,
of the protest chants.

Give me
the lower east
the upper west
the mid-
the down-,
the exec suites,
the artists' lofts,
the dives
and Bemelman's.

Give me
galleries,
graffiti,
sculptures,
architecture,
heaps of garbage,
and the Wall Street Bull
with his big, bronze balls.

Give me my
Great White Way,
my Little Italy,
my filthy subways,
my glittering storefronts,
my peep shows,
my museums,

my fiercely proud, my
fellow men, women,
freaks, assholes, thugs,
rude sons-of-bitches -

all these beloved
souls who share
my home,

for, verily,
 
I [heart] NY.

 This was written about a year and a half ago, when I spent my first couple of months away from New York.

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