20020912<\/p>\n
Alive the city ,
\nhistory and electricity
\nflows in poured cement
\nlamented and assured
\nwith Gas lights
\nand
\nclear windows
\ndead eyes
\nand callused hands
\ngrowing from strong arms ;
\nthis never was my city.<\/p>\n
Alive the streets,<\/p>\n
a rapid river
\nof loud roaring traffic
\nbelow
\nand the highways warm
\ntrembles with the fear of the
\nfarm boys
\ntrembles at the power of the
\nprostitute
\ntrembles at the prodigy
\nchild
\nThe future.<\/p>\n
Alive the death ,<\/p>\n
a great man stands bronzed in
\nthe
\npark
\nremembered only by the
\npigeons
\nas a place for them to
\nshit;
\nthe homeless man the wisest man
\nlay
\nbelow
\ntattered cloths news paper
\npillow
\nremembered only by society
\nas a place for them to
\nshit.<\/p>\n
Alive the jazzman ,<\/p>\n
on the corner
\nbelow
\nseeps his soul through
\nbrass valves
\nhis weight held only on
\none
\nreed
\nhe stops\u2026 silence
\nhe don’t wanna think no more
\nand I
\nlike the jazz man
\ndon’t wanna
\nthink no more.<\/p>\n
Alive the seductress,<\/p>\n
slender legs and
\nw o b bl y heels
\nselling her soul for
\n100 dollars
\nan hour
\nhating hating
\nHating
\nA master of her own
\nfilthy power
\nI put binoculars
\nbetween her kneecaps and
\nI can see where
\nEmpires have fallen.<\/p>\n
Alive the man with the<\/p>\n
briefcase,
\nthe superior man of today
\nthe man of limited feeling
\nwhose education consists of
\neducation consists of
\nready made actions to
\nready made
\nsituations.<\/p>\n
Alive the young poets,<\/p>\n
out their sex hungry
\ntrying to act tough
\ntrying to act like men
\nbut really closer to their
\nmothers nipples
\nthan to a true evaluation
\nof
\nexistence.<\/p>\n
Alive the men who make the<\/p>\n
city ,
\nwith dusty hands
\nand moist brow
\nbehind brawd shoulders
\nthat stand taller than the
\ntowers
\nwho’s hats and heads are
\nharder
\nthan the hammers they
\nswing.<\/p>\n
Alive the people,<\/p>\n
the thick headed bullbrained
\nmob
\nhard on attitude
\nalready forgotten ; the dead of
\nNormandy
\nand Lincoln’s stringy beard.<\/p>\n
Alive the city,<\/p>\n
and its marvelous sound
\npulsing from concrete
\nhumming from street lamps
\nand the millions of voices
\nimbedded in
\ngraffiti
\ntaxis
\nart
\nand faces
\nflowing with
\nculture
\ncolor and race
\nroom after room
\nand building after building
\nof people with stories of
\npain and prosperity.<\/p>\n
A rain will come<\/p>\n
and
\nclean the streets
\nclean the buildings
\nclean the filth
\nand forever the raging river
\nof chaotic Roaring traffic
\nwill flow
\nand the soul of the city
\nwill live eternally
\nnot just in my mind
\nbut in the graffiti
\nprophesies
\nin the voices and hearts
\nof the people
\nand with the strength
\nof concrete<\/p>\n
Alive the beginning<\/p>\n
Alive the birth
\nAlive the life
\nAlive the love
\nAlive the soul
\nAlive the death
\nAlive the never
\nAlive my self
\nAlive
\nThe
\nCity…
\nRoaring
\nROARING<\/p>\n
I wrote this a while ago… I was reading through my stuff and it struck me as interesting, mostly because the
\nmeanings 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…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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