from M a n h a t t a t i o n s
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To keep alive I flick unpolished fingers
against the skull of this city, like, hey, my sister
bleeds forever from the head, in my head
she is four years old and jumping
under the porch steps, wet, everything
changes, New York, you would want, too,
secretly, for the rest of your life, to see that much
blood again, and on the drive to the hospital
you would understand everything and
imagine leaves as schools of red fish
flexing streams through the wind.
=
because there is none
the park lawn now
trampled black with charcoal dust
still two kids
chase the dream of an orange
ball through the muck a woman
with a trash bag slung over
her shoulder crosses the street
so slow the world
pauses it’s possible
the mouth of a man
singing at a red light in his
minivan frozen open a sound
no one will ever hear
slips back
down his throat not a single
voice rises in the whole
world as abandoned
cruise ships scoot along
the ocean of sky pretending
to be clouds
=
the breath of morning I can’t smell
the difference between train stops what
if anything
does that mean
people should at times be able
to mention the names of poets
without dropping them
and think for no reason
of elephants as their hearts fill
with coffee I think
for no reason
if you like me you should
say you like me and hold out your hand
I’m headed to work with a small
cache of great heights stuffed
in my brain like I want to win
prizes and never work
again for anyone I’ll wear impossibly
red heels be
the woman I will
never be the woman on the platform
laughing into the wind of passing
time and train holding her leather
bag and cell phone like
no way is the wrong way home
=
The recorded voice of a politician rises
from a slow moving truck bed. Everything
an overlay. The white
noise of trains and buses rumbles too,
like some long constipated volcano
we’ve all stopped
fearing over time. Only one man
on the street still believes we will
burn one day, and even he
doesn’t move. Already a rock
seared orange, he says, Watch the
steam rise from my scorched head
like the hair of an ocean god
curled by the sea. The politician’s
voice, unintelligible, booms
down the block. A woman’s
laugh cracks the pavement, and I
crawl inside the dark gash
because haven’t we just
made a big mess of living?
Have a seat. Let’s go crazy. We have no
hope and no money, New York.