What New York used to be

//The Kills: What New York used to be

Dawn in New York has
  four columns of mire
  and a hurricane of black pigeons
  splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York groans
  on enormous fire escapes
  searching between the angles
  for spikenards of drafted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
  because morning and hope are impossible there:
  sometimes the furious swarming coins
  penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.

Those that go out early know in their bones
  there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
  they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
  in mindless games, in fruitless labors.

The light is buried under chains and noises
  in an impudent challenge to rootless science.
  And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
  as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.
"A Poet in New York" by Federico Garcia Lorca

//The Magnetic Fields: The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side

Away for a few days. You know where.