Thursday, July 3, 2008

alphabet city is soggy soup

we’re not new yorkers
because there are none

they’re buried in sleepy hollow
on the islands of the city
left out to dry

flocks of us, having read walt,
thinking there’s more than

black coats and tough guy movies

bad rock stars with
loud nothings

hairy brains

and worn out cocks

adam and ryan
whine from the village
about the thorns on their rose parade

a good paul followed the caravan
fleeing some time later to the red dirt

i sit a bit northward
beginning again, in a most unfashionable shirt

we’re not new yorkers
because there are none

we’re not new yorkers
because when the drink runs our engines

we wish we had a firepit
we wish we had
wisconsin back
we wish we had ortherockies or the orthedriveon52
wider lanes and tiny magic nighttime cities
the boredom of
iowa to see a show
back rooms you can get into and
people you hear and smell and know
the sort of good company
that’s capped with snow
and drops the petals of open spaces on the ones we love

a few million visitors
capped with chic cigarettes
and the right to emphysema,

cursing badass whimpers
through pursed lips,

about to die with a black car
and a black suit

and black shoes

we’re not new yorkers
because we don’t wear shoes

and because there are none

because they paved over
the beautiful, uncut hair of graves

because we are less in their meditations
than we might suppose

2 comments:

James said...

the average blog has one faithful reader.
-faithfully yours

MBQ said...

I super loved that. Puttin' you on my fancy blogroll thinger.