In Inwood

Originally published 9/3/15
The city hums in almost imperceptible bass tones, periodically pierced by an aggravated hanging horn blast here, a less-pressing beep there. The hum grows like a wave at times, like additional layers of paint being poured on the slowly absorbent sound canvas of the neighborhood. Metal on metal emanates now and again, steel rods wrestling and clanking above the hum while pent up sources of air pressure find their release from unknown orifices. I wonder if I will be washed away in the increasing intensity of the hum as I sit in solitude, my back against the dried cracking grayish black tar exterior of the wall.

Hardened bubbles dot the wall all around me, markers of the sun’s torture frozen in place from days and years past. Trains rattle in the distance; I watch black clouds rise from roofs like failing demons of the night meeting their exorcism, drawn into the light of day. They disappear. Unseen birds speak a shrill language I do not understand. For all I know, they are saying the same thing, over and over. I can hear the roar of engines in the sky, yet I see nothing.  Perhaps that is God roaring around up there. If there is a place God is interested in watching, it is certainly here - this gridlocked network of manipulated scenery staring up at the sky, it’s demons screaming and writhing, some escaping from sight in a heartbeat, some returning to their origin.

Why does it smell like piss up here? I wonder, as I cross the dulled silver floor of the roof. Another black cloud of exhaust concentrates and dissipates on the horizon.