Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Blind, strolling puking

Oh, concrete sleek like woman’s
thigh do you both give me such
a sigh as I can’t help but think of the climb
up. Spiraling from the flat, cold ground
towards the twinkling horizon
--smog, moon, vapor, plane and cloud--
spitting without remorse. Front row goose
bumps never forgetting your croon, oh I love your
pipes, wires, frames, windows and walls.
So why do I linger in this dead city of my
birth when life awaits me just beyond that silver
ghost swallowing clouds. Beautiful strangers emancipating the gene pools of
reticent DNA yearnings. I don’t care about the sand moats
and light people strolling in guardian--buttery, potato bread hamburgers
and milkshakes shacked, shackled, bagged, banged and bombed.
This schizo-electric nonsense of vagabond strolling I find
so consoling that inner-rhymes, twined around lines like lips on fingers
seeking to hush the great babble have no dime for
the great parking meter. A space without a car. You mad
yellow taxi warriors, this ride’s intense. How can I ever
fall back upon my musty, olive pillow when now the taste
of cement falls from my tongue like the raining
debris of your billowing plume, oh fuck, where are the
words with which I may lasso your raw, untamed
beauty. "Guess what," I think, "they’ll never come."
And that’s why these streets honk and blink and scream and swagger--
we’re all just mad suburban, subway Pentecostals
sucking snake poison and wine--crying, spilling, bleeding puke-fucking
your name in a divine frenzy, apple-eating madness.
New York,
I fucking love you.