New York

A Poem by Michael Hess

I could pour my heart out to these rooftops. The city lights burn through me to my thoughts. The city never sleeps...we have that in common. Here you're either greeted by a "hello" or a "f**k off".

Speed -- the city's full of it. Take that however you want. Both are true.

I hear good things of Coney Island. I'd like to go there. But you don't always get what you want. They're tearing it down to build high-priced condos.

I love this cold air. The air in Texas is sometimes suffocating.

No one appreciates the art anymore. Listen to the waves of sound traveling through the halls from shallow conversations between hurried and bored people. If it doesn't move or pass through headphones or a TV screen, it means nothing these days.

"Oh, this is cool. It's colorful."

I really heard that one...many a time. You see an oil sketch of a man crouched down by a river with his dog. Simple picture, but there is so much more! The artist puts a purpose and a thought into the simple sketch. Artists tell stories or convey feelings with their work.

And ancient artifacts...ancient peoples of the world didn't make things because they thought it would be in a museum hundreds or thousands of years later. That was their life, their belongings, their prized possessions, their family heirlooms, their FAMILY. Imagine the days of the future when one of your most treasured possessions could be sitting in a giant building surrounded by people staring through a glass case. Thought...purpose...the museums and galleries are full of it. All you have to do is look.