Garbage

Urine. 

Garbage, you know. 

Roasting, rotting food. Rats scampering, summer trash days in New York City. Piled high on the edges, masks to mute the smell. Walk faster, past the piss and garbage shit smells. The most expensive city. Trash. Filth. Layers upon layers of dirt, rot, excrement. Layers of an onion. Rotting onion. 

Spilled drinks, dog shit, human shit, homelessness, digging in the trash. Pretend like you don’t see it.

A model walking down a trash runway. Dancing down the dirty, smeared sidewalk in a suit. Trash art, street art. In style.

Body odor on the subway. A slow trickle on the floor. Rat smashed in the door. Stand clear. Don’t say anything. Eyes down.

Outdoor dining in trash. Fine dining. Hungry? 

China Town, hosing down that sharp fish smell.

Garbage. 

You get used to it. I only see it for a few days and then it becomes normal. Ease into it like cold bath. It’s still shocking, the first day. Then fades away. Every time I come back it’s shocking.

Close toed shoes only. 

I love this city, I say on a crisp evening in Brooklyn, it really feels like home. A piece of trash is lifted up by the summer breeze and hits me in the face.

Is this natural? To live in trash? It’s expensive, desirable, you know. I wonder if everyone sees it. Is shocked by it’s unending presence. The first day. But what do you see?

Ignore all the things that offend, at every glance, every smell. It’s fine. Don’t you feel the energy? Close your eyes.

It’s the greatest city in the world you know. 

Garbage.

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