INFORMAL MALAISE
So what do you think, this sex-trade is
volume enough? That it works? Look at
the tired and the dead : all those girls in
the street with bodies that are wilting.
Too many people have learned how
to say 'it isn't me, nor was it ever.'
Something like a street-talk in Astoria,
Queens or Red Hook, Brooklyn. 'I hang
out at the lime'd and light'd stadium, down
underneath the Sadowski Steps. Meet me
there whenever you've a notion.'
-
Who's running the cartel on these paper-product
pushers, the hand-wipes in the street, the unrolled
condoms and wrappers and gel? It's disgusting
enough to be around it and see, it's even worse
to tell. I lost my old horse a long time ago. Every
13 year old I knew is now 51.
-
How sad and how sorrow'd is all that? I'd never know -
black coffee in the morning, a few wicked partings in
the night, the black Lexus, the blue Cadillac. Everything
like this is a journey to behold; from start to finish nothing
unworthy, all gold. Myself? I gave it all up a long, long time
back - replaced now with paper and notebooks
and rhymes. I'm not timid no more.
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