Do you imagine us embittered, our angers always at a boil?
That painting rich men have made of us has never been true.
I've found strength in learning to be happy in my toil,
Through all that, for paychecks, I've been made to do.

I've learned to work hard, and then, to rest.
It is the rich, among all those I've viewed,
Who, in matters of discipline and virtue,
Always fail the test.

See within me instead that stern, immovable, peasant-borne strength,
Which kings and royals for millennia abused, yet leaned on for defense.
That strength born, as peasants are, from cracks deep in the earth, yea, in fissures,
Formed as they are driven into the ground by generations of rich men, demanding yet to be richer.

Let the world not place love between us far.
I still wish for you, every night, upon the stars.
Come here. The longing in your heart so clearly tells
How the pain of heartbreak is one all classes know well.

Let us sit together, and watch this world fight through its million growing pangs anew,
Fight to realize that none should die from want, when so much of this world's fortune is held by so few,
Fight to rediscover that the measure of a man has never been his wealth,
That this world of unearned privilege and endless toil, with righteous fiery destruction, must be dealt,
That one ought be owed a portion of the fruit his hands planted in the ground,
That unity among men asks first for equality, ere it may be found.

I’m sorry to break your heart. I’m sorry to rob it of its shine.
Trust that mine has been broken a million times before.
Trust that I too cursed the ones who broke mine.
Yet here I am here, breaking yours.

Will these cycles of torment ever end?
Or will we roam here forever? 
Asking for love only from those who prefer us friends?
From those whose hearts from ours are severed?

I know this isn’t the poem you wished I write of you.
But o’ look through all these other poems, witnesses to all the times,
That I wrote through the night, trapped in my blues,
Of all the girls I once loved who, as I broke your heart, broke mine 

Because you’re in New York now! Welcome to the city of dreams! 
Trust that this city will break your heart
A million times before you leave,
In plane or in casket, in whole or in part.

But my friend Rumi, I’m sure you’ve heard tell of his art,
O’ he spoke to me the other day through time, 
And he told me to break my heart. 
Yes, to break my heart until it breaks open—open wide

And I know it may be hard to believe,
But when I say my grace and count my life’s lucky tokens,
Even as all the fragments of my heart I still crawl to retrieve,
I thank this city the most for this heart, this heart broken wide open.

Because the world comes to me now in poems.
Walt Whitman, who in my sadness oft keeps me company,
No longer needs remind me in his tomes
Of the source of all art. O’ Walt, I know it well already.

I’ve known my friend Rabindranath, yes Rabindranath Tagore,
Since I was a child. I read him well through my teenage years,
And all his poems of the infinite and divine that confused me before
Seem simple to me now, as I stumble home, drunk on four beers.

I know your promise. You know it yourself.
I think of how you spoke of this country, of all its pain.
And I know your art will serve it well,
Ease its sorrow, and guide it to freedom again 

It is told that when the Mongols to Nishapur came 
And raped and wrecked the city with flame,
That Attar, the city’s poet most famed,
Met them at the city’s gate
          And fought on, his sword to his hand still wed,
          E’en after he lost his head.

I see you the same, your sprit whistling through trees,
Your soul, like John Brown’s, marching on,
Fighting off this country’s worst enemies,
Well after you’re gone,
With the words that behind you leave.

For I have seen the meaning of your name,
From the Germanic, meaning universal or whole,
There is none better for an artist, one whose soul may never be tamed,
One dutybound to hold the universe aloft, its sins chastise, and its virtues extol.

So, write something of me.
Paint me o’er, as red as the devil, with shoeshine.
Make me the villain of all your stories.
I will make you the hero of all of mine.

          And trust this city will bless you in time
          With the love of someone taller, more handsome, more caring, less selfish than I.

          And you will be one with the one you love in this endless city of dreams.
          And the thought of me and all the pain I wrought will leave you completely.

Here I am, thinking of you again
Wishing to feel closer to you once more

O All these tortured thoughts,
Do they bring you closer to me as well?
Do they direct your thoughts to mine?

They say it cannot be so,
But I believe it still

And to jog my thoughts towards you, I listen to a song
A song that I learned from the breeze is close to you as well
And in the space between each pair of notes, I see you somewhere in eternity
Your dark cropped hair and evergreen smile
Swaying by yourself on your front stoop, with that purveyor of vaporized joy in your hand

And it hurts me to dream of you
But the thought of you is sweet 
So, I hold my breath 
And linger here as long as I can bear

This life’s an engine of steel. 
It roars o’er valleys, brooks, and plains. 
It spews steam and smoke, turning still air
To wind in my hair

So many places to go. So many things to see.
So much life to live. My life is to be long, 
And full of pain, and life's 
Small victories in between.

I wish to pile its smalls triumphs
To say at its end, “This is all I have accomplished! 
Be proud of me! 
Because I know I have worked hard enough 
To be proud of myself.”

But I’ve put my work away for the week
Because I’ve seen the germ of love in your eyes
And so I have stopped my train here, at your station
Because I do not work well while my heart longs
For completion 

So join me. Be the wind in my sails.
And I will be in the wind in yours.
Sail with me across the prairies.
Come witness this rolling parade of life
Here with me.

For I cannot wait here forever
This life calls on me, on and on and on,
And it would be cruel for me 
To break the heart of another 
To await a passenger 
That may never come.

I have missed my own trains. 
Love I thought would still
Be ripe for me as I wandered about,
Perusing my supposed better options
Only for them to choose another and 
For me, returning, to see the train I awaited
Has left my station

So I beg, catch this train while it awaits thee
I've come, of late, to stop so little for anyone
Because all their visits were but with disappointment
Your fear has never served you before.
Let go its hand. For love is worth but naught
Without the bravery to affect it.