Wednesday, June 22, 2011

St. Patrick improv

I make believe (I'm a child) childishly
that I'm sitting strung out facing Kerouac New York
in his seat at foot of St. Patrick's Cathedral
dusk and rush hour
heavy wood romantic doors behind
rushing crowds run off to live to die
come from Times Square ignore marble steps
but heartbroken there's a restoration
project & stained glass window
Visions of Cody is obscured
ah, there the police are going again,
so murdered at birth we are
an' linear streets go-ooooooh
North and South
over the bland walls left stranded,
I'm contemplating the setting sun already set
in reality not really setting just floating
or falling? Or not even there?
The end of a sentence & fire rages near
near hot dog stand, what's a cop's care in
Old York but terrorizing the ice cream man?
We sure as hell are fucked,

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