NEW YORK POETS
(a life story)
Why should I be anyone you
meet? Clay, cement and water.
An aftertaste you'd remember?
Why shouldn't you forget the
list, like the many flowers sold
on the New York Streets?
-
Music? ('You don't own me'), and
apartments with old songs in the
hallways, drooping, made of old,
saggy wood, weak with dry rot too.
Why remember? Why pretend?
Who me, on 22nd street?
-
I have sat and you walked by
(schematic effervescence). Now,
a sunlight with a theme on high.
Why must it always seem? Why
can't you just forget me?
-
New York poet, running, dazed;
he screams to no one in particular.
'I'm lost, and don't regret it.' Sick.
Clay, cement, and water, putrid
around a loud perfume, and
someone sitting idly in the
smokey room.
-
I have sat here, and listened to
Italian, Pole, and Jew; to the
grandmas and the waiters, cabbies,
and some few dilapidated students
hung for treason on the truck.
No one heard my message.
No one gave a fuck.
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