Avenue A from Achoritisms by Starless

I was born where sirens sang,
on corners filled with smoke and slang,
beneath the steel and neon skies
of summer sweat and subway cries.
A pigeon watched me learn to stand
between hot dog carts and jazz bands.
If I must belong somewhere,
let it be there.

My cradle was a creaky floor,
in a brownstone five flights more,
where mom would hum some vinyl tune
and light would fight to reach my room.
The streets were loud, the nights were bold,
and every soul had stories told.
If there's a place I call my own,
it’s that skyline made of stone.

New York City, back in the nineties,
graffiti hearts, and broken dreams.
I grew up chasing taxi lights
and playing drums on trash can lids.
If I ever drift too far,
and lose the sound of who I am,
take me back to where I found
my name in spray-paint on the ground.

I fell in love in Central Park,
one July night, well past dark.
She wore her Walkman like a crown
and danced like no one was around.
She left with autumn, caught a train,
but that first kiss still lights my brain.
If I have to die someday,
bury me on Avenue A.

Let the traffic be my choir,
horns and brakes, and subway fire.
Let the steam rise from the street,
and cover me like midnight heat.
Let me fade where I began,
a poet with no master plan.


New York City, sweet and bitter,
burned my lips, then made me glitter.
Every block a universe,
every loss a new-found verse.
And if I ever lose my way,
I know exactly what I’ll say:
I was born where buildings pray,
and I would never go away.

• Experimental
• Girona