The Astral



For two years

my place of residence

was a corner apartment in the Astral

a shabbily grandiose behemoth of building

on Franklin Street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn

less than two blocks away from the East River.



Though I never knew for sure,

I always imagined that the Astral had once been a hotel,

a destination of nineteenth-century romance and intrigue,

frequented by sailors, merchants, wayward European couples,

gamblers, ex-gunfighters, dissolute scribes, etc.



The building, six rugged stories that loom

the entire block between Java and India Streets,

is in fact cited on certain maps as one of Greenpoint's

historic buildings.



Whatever its past, today these apartments

house a diverse assortment of folks of modest means,

ranging from solid domestic types to utter bohemians,

from hard-bitten immigrants to the bitterly indolent,

from the vaguely criminal to the criminally vague.



Affordable rents and close proximity to Manhattan

recommend the Astral to many young people,

while the proximity of the East River,

not to mention mounds of curbside trash,

recommend to the Astral legions of huge cockroaches.



While living there, I had ample

opportunity to consider the obvious relationship

between affordable rent

and an abundance of vermin.



There may or may not be gargoyles

incorporated somewhere in the Astral's façade.



From the roof, two things are apparent:

a magnificent view of Manhattan and the East River,



and the bizarre, seemingly random sprawl of the Astral itself,

as though the architect had been a proponent of free-association,

or else a drinking man.



Probably both.



Walls and parapets erupt weirdly

from the rooftop.



Small mice appeared routinely in my apartment.



I found it agreeable to imagine a lone, itinerant mouse

including my space as part of its usual circuit,



rather than seeing one as the immediate representative

of an infestation, of which it undoubtedly was.



In this way, as well as others,

I was victim to a fond, ubiquitous fallacy endemic

to Gothamites generally,

and to many Astral tenants in particular.



The fallacy involves being dedicated

to the idea that uncomfortable situations

somehow become optimal in light

of one's geographic location.



The larger fallacy being that New York City

is somehow

the ordained center

of the Universe.



Days I was utterly, tragically

earthbound in Brooklyn,

I would return to my Astral abode

to ponder these and other useful delusions.



Then the World Trade Center

was blown all to shit by airplanes

and people were jumping to their deaths

and dying

in other fantastic ways

all that whole morning



and I had to say fuck it all



just like everyone else



and evil is everywhere all over this whole earth



so I'll save my Astral shit for projecting



projecting positivity into a world that needs it



and fuck New York and all enemies



wherever they reside



(they are everywhere)



find the fucker bin Laden



impeach the fucker Bush



I think that'll settle some of it



(the parity

in this assertion



is what's most



depressing)