How To Bury A Lost City In A Decade Right In Front Of You
bombs killed the anarchist fishmongers
who wanted to organize something
under the colonial paving stones
that were europa too young
to walk on their own legs
in immigrant clothes
naked in the cold
in a hundred years or more
undocumented workers would smoke blunts
in the bathroom for the top o the world
while the world traded possibilities
under the towering gaze of twin
free market standing sentinels
as if it was impervious to its own
limited liability denial
that looked down
on all the mobs
of impetuous
trump hopefuls
trolling in and out
of all the subway platforms
at the clay feet of a commercial high rising upward
so many ghosts hit the skids that day
running away from the zeroed out ground
as fast as the wind could blow them out
running through Chinatown and SoHo
all the way up to the alphabets of Loisaida
the old park is a walk from gershwin's stoop
up around the corner from the 2nd ave deli
past st. marks where corso slips a dollar in
pulls it out past the square for fair on the L
going back to brooklyn in the morning
o gregorio o gregorio
o we see so clearly now, only too late
the bomb came for us as we were warned
by the cloak of poems that gave us cover
only for so long as those words could
everyone gazed upward
toward the morning sun
with national camera eyesight
as we all looked on in unexplainable surprise
still life with an ash tray in a diner that no longer smokes
roll past graham through ghosts that have become hipster bubble gum flavor assortments giving away all potential to the dive that overcharges and artistically under performs, still, everyone is a critic when the world is less critical when the mass is less critical when it is less complicated when it is all just a puzzle with an easy piece missing in action so the chatter goes all night long in a clinky clank of cocktail glasses that must be avoided at all costs after the latest rent increase
catch the car service to bushwick and metropolitan into the lost world of thievery gone co-op
make a get away to flatbush all the way up to church and breath deep the jerk sauce aroma
where dutch became dutchie in a reformed church cemetary blowing sound blowing minds blowing blowing blowing
make a get away to the coney island that is no longer a dream or a nightmare just the last refuge of goons, gumbahs and mermaids on the lost boardwalk running like a comet with a splintered tail where the ghosts of your first tattooed ladies ride horses off of diving boards into the pooled tear drops of elephant palace memories that once held cheers for bums dodging trolley cars out into far rockaway and back on a lonesome plane ride off into sunshine away from home plate sliding fantasy leagues where the dust of fallen towers never touches the empty graves of lost friends who didn't leave enough of a concern for anyone to stop a war for as they were too busy starting wars for someone else who had more friends and was better thought of than the bike messengers, panhandlers, undocumented workers that left no discernible DNA rubbed into molten metal skeleton structural remains of a lost day in time
missed flight on the 9th means nothing 2 days later or even 10 smoky years afterward
walking it off in a haze that has left many for dead who had no choice since then only
it was not the first time death took innocence for granted on the lay away plan it would
make the whole repertoire more chic than ever as texas finally cried for yankees like never
before seen footage of popular mechanics tragedy lessons learned stateside as if uncle sam
were an islamic bee keeper with guantanamo bee hive unleashing istani drone attacks all over
the god damn fields of inglorious vengeance against the internal apartheid of soulless decisions
that kiss hot ashen limbs all over battery park as the soot of a lost mosque goes undetected on
the wailing walls scored by roman swords and spears an unfashionable empire ago
these words were just a bloodletting for those that never saw it coming in so many places
in so many ways in so many times in so many lands
most people wanna be left alone unless you are gonna make them famous
no one wants to pay the price for fame as long as fame is paying the price
we make bombs as if it were potlatch for children to return it to our unborn
unconceived unadulterated generations yet to come
the blood all mixes in on the sidewalk but it can't be demarcated
from the scorched earth that buries ideals and convictions
in graves now trampled and left unmarked
