It's a rainy day in old New York; Traffic lights, burning - steam drifting, shifting through gutters, electrified angels flying high in the big apple, illuminated! Softly spoken of jazz and evening. Caresses of Passion and love; Fantastic dreams weighing heavy overhead, keeping the city a beat! And covering all of their tears…and it's strange not to wonder, just how many tears have fallen to these mad streets. After falling swiftly from the face of absolute grace.
This hot city, laughing and screaming, breathing and living! Yet never dying: Trapped, from beyond the grave; searching for the saint and destroyed by the supernatural, echoing in darkness - whispers as sacred as Brooklyn, Manhattan and on
up state. A lot of love is made here when it rains: “Rainy day, dream away” sings Hendrix from the ghost of my record player. Dim apartments, candles lit, lovers tangled in the sheets, no tragedies in bed...Through chimes of cold rain reflective of God and all related topics I hear Kerouac, somewhere out inside of all the grey and all of the gloom, mind turning - Speaking of the mad ones: True vision seen! From the east village, to Harlem... and back again.