kristofer mercado


It’s glowing neon lights, it’s golden alleys, it’s red hues on the blue cement, against the cold fall moonlight. The ads keeping us warm. The city changes but it’s roots stay the same, and they endure. They carry on, the pain, the history, the words, the blood. New York is fake friends on a Saturday night doing too much coke, eating fancy brunches, laughing into the empty night. New York is your real friend, only if you smoke American Spirits or Newports. New York, is the Hassids crossing the street in a brisk pace, the Puerto Rican’s playing dominoes on stoops. New York is a hot Chinatown dumpling, for a broke lunch. New York is Queens, even if you never go there. New York is a loyal cheater. Dancers roaming in heels, drinking gin and tonic breaking night before a shoot. Luxury living on a dime if you scam right, talk right, look right.

New York was conjured up by poets and drunks and vagrants alike. New York is in it’s mid thirties obsessed with money. New York is a summer that smells like hot garbage. It’s charm is truest when on the street, it’s grit, unexploited, unsullied, free of gentrification or commercial analogues. Raw. It’s stories are best told in the fringes, the worlds, the rooms you can’t enter, but more than likely don’t belong in. They live here, it’s cool, only when it’s not. This is the existence we were all promised in movies, television, burned into CDs, maybe etched into stones. They are visitors, strangers, wanderers, drug addicts, scammers, beautiful, haters, lovers, cheap, easy, fast, and ugly. The drugs feel best when shared here, but even then a joint at night keeps you at ease. New York is saying you visit often, a layover here, a trip to Berlin there, an exotic vacation, a hit of Molly, don’t forget to update Snapchat or your Instagram story. New York is burning, like Paris before it, and the light is so bright. The Moths fly too close, too often.