New York is not the city that never sleeps. New York
is the city where practically nobody exists.
where consequently hardly anyone's afraid. New York is a mania
made of twenty-two automatic Brooklyns. of 2.2
to the 1.3 power Manhattans. of gaseous Hudson.
the people picnic on picnic piers, in elevators, parks,
in tranquility, in fresh homelessness, in their handbags
post-industrial oil. New York oil. New York aerosol.
New-York-Get-Lost. buildings that seem treated
with Country Western. near-amphetamine sidewalks.
iron sneers, skypokers - Jesus in Wonderland!
here boys lived and worked who graduated college
to get mustaches. here girls live and work
whose arrogance has exponential consequences. New York,
it isn't only the tenants and the tenants' murderers,
it's also the elevators' closed eyelids
on level zero. Yankee sex in broad daylight. New
York is not a york that's new. New York's
the batteries in the airport users' picture-takers.
New York's the city where among other words God
can only be screamed. you encounter New York
driving from New York to New York. or
out of Neon into the Bronx. the city is in the family
of museums of modern despair. you can read that
in its face. you can't read that in its face. New York spoons
itself. and isn't the mystery of Frisco.
can't be. the climate resembles the future too closely.
some believe New York sleeps like a hummingbird
that thinks it's an anvil. sleeps in a state
of wakefulness. you know. New York of highest blues and
deepest reds. and green Dollar-New-York. yellow blooming
Taxi-Popup-New-York, reminiscent of the corn painters
back in the first America. the medicinal troubadours
of Utica. was their type truly New York? just walk once
down a torpedo avenue, through which the countryside
is in fact transported into the city. move yourself
through it like a mixture of unstringent life-wolf and
introsect. since it is New York.

Translation: JD Schneider