Manhattan island was born at night.
This deathbed of forest drew from spring
a winter soul, and — look, its cold hard face
in the windows as you drive past,
schlepping history on its back — here,
the blasé boys gathered like
snow on the sills, to forge steel
from ice. Listen to their pistons clanging,
their lives bounding the rooftops,
carving out strange latitudes overhead
for all the world to see.
Hush, hush! The engines have all gone
silent. The Hudson rounds its amours; it fears
the season has gone sallow, and the flâneurs
scatter, for they’ve lost their north star:
It seems the past is no longer here.
Alone, the city walks the city streets,
each ill movement a want for rest
or stillness, lazing past its zenith,
its dominion waning —
a comet crowning the horizon,
then fading into dark.
My First Reading
Chinatown summons its underground champions.
The boys down there shake hands
and laugh like bending rivers
I stand at the mirror, an artist
practicing the art of mimicry,
rehearsing profundities – where
do you live? what do you do? – between rites,
sandbag thoughts avalanche stale
Narcissus pillars the underground.
The boys, wind-whipped egos stripped
of wide berth, trading their hearts
for mahogany, study superlatives;
their champion of champions beckoning,
eager ears, listening –
their platitudes masks for intellectual warfare.
Sentences honed to slip under the skin and burst
like killers through the morning’s eye
while the rest like fire
leap through exits to lick solid,
Alexander Loukopoulos is a physicist turned creative writer from Queens, NYC. Although he just earned his B.A. in Screenwriting, he has recently ventured into the world of poetry and loves exploring anything related to walking, dreams, coincidences, and the passage of time.