20020912
Alive the city ,
history and electricity
flows in poured cement
lamented and assured
with Gas lights
and
clear windows
dead eyes
and callused hands
growing from strong arms ;
this never was my city.
Alive the streets,
a rapid river
of loud roaring traffic
below
and the highways warm
trembles with the fear of the
farm boys
trembles at the power of the
prostitute
trembles at the prodigy
child
The future.
Alive the death ,
a great man stands bronzed in
the
park
remembered only by the
pigeons
as a place for them to
shit;
the homeless man the wisest man
lay
below
tattered cloths news paper
pillow
remembered only by society
as a place for them to
shit.
Alive the jazzman ,
on the corner
below
seeps his soul through
brass valves
his weight held only on
one
reed
he stops… silence
he don’t wanna think no more
and I
like the jazz man
don’t wanna
think no more.
Alive the seductress,
slender legs and
w o b bl y heels
selling her soul for
100 dollars
an hour
hating hating
Hating
A master of her own
filthy power
I put binoculars
between her kneecaps and
I can see where
Empires have fallen.
Alive the man with the
briefcase,
the superior man of today
the man of limited feeling
whose education consists of
education consists of
ready made actions to
ready made
situations.
Alive the young poets,
out their sex hungry
trying to act tough
trying to act like men
but really closer to their
mothers nipples
than to a true evaluation
of
existence.
Alive the men who make the
city ,
with dusty hands
and moist brow
behind brawd shoulders
that stand taller than the
towers
who’s hats and heads are
harder
than the hammers they
swing.
Alive the people,
the thick headed bullbrained
mob
hard on attitude
already forgotten ; the dead of
Normandy
and Lincoln’s stringy beard.
Alive the city,
and its marvelous sound
pulsing from concrete
humming from street lamps
and the millions of voices
imbedded in
graffiti
taxis
art
and faces
flowing with
culture
color and race
room after room
and building after building
of people with stories of
pain and prosperity.
A rain will come
and
clean the streets
clean the buildings
clean the filth
and forever the raging river
of chaotic Roaring traffic
will flow
and the soul of the city
will live eternally
not just in my mind
but in the graffiti
prophesies
in the voices and hearts
of the people
and with the strength
of concrete
Alive the beginning
Alive the birth
Alive the life
Alive the love
Alive the soul
Alive the death
Alive the never
Alive my self
Alive
The
City…
Roaring
ROARING
I wrote this a while ago… I was reading through my stuff and it struck me as interesting, mostly because the
meanings have twisted in my images from what I intended them to be. I wonder if that is an internal thing, or if other people feel the same way…