The real NYC

Listening to a drunk guitarist talking to himself as he walks through the subway station here in New York.
I can tell from here that his guitar bag is heavy, but his pockets are light tonight.
He snarls at me as I check my pockets, wondering where my phone is. As he passes through the turnstile, the f word blazing as he comments on all the niggers taking what's due him.
This is normal, and I didn't make it up. This is what happens in the subways of New York.
Still humpimg the American dream, I suppose, as I count my money, I find my phone.
He shuffles off f-words raining as I notice his native American feathers on the back of his t-shirt. "I'm glad he's not a part of my tribe" I thought, but knowing that had he been, I believe we would have loved that HELL right out of him. Could have surely, but who cares.
The doors have closed on the subway, and the sound of sexless Chinese women irritate my head, through the ears first, and then the eyes. How could something so beautiful be so ugly at the same time. Like dry hair and old braids.
I don't belong here and I know it. I better figure something out quick, before it's too late.
Floating on the invisible cloud of the American dream, I wonder if Hunter had it right all along.
This place can be frightening; not because of anything scary, but because it is what it is. Look around, absorb, reflect. Ingest. Amazing and stupid, all at the same time. Does this make any sense at all?
Someone's children are screaming now on this train to queens. Maybe they've got it right. It is dark and lonely and full of strangers. I know I could make this stop, but I just don't think that it's my place to intervene.. From the sound of things, everyone in this godforsaken place has had a long day. Welcome to the real New York.