Advancing from the earth to reach up high,
From passageways and subways emerging,
To strain with ribald fingers at the sky,
The virus of the rage distilled and surging.
To spray paint on the tiles cursed to grey,
Chipped and peeling from the ransacked wall,
Created in the night, steam cleaned by day,
So does the poverty of artlessness befall.
A motion blur upon the grille and grating,
There she stands with lustrous legs and thong,
In the shadows sits a poet dissipating,
With a voice that cracks more desolate each song.
And stand, dream, dry hump the slipstream panic,
When the tickets flutter, turnstiles clack and turn,
The chewing gum dries almost like ceramic,
The heaps of rags in bundles flap and churn.
So how to make me sad when I am happy,
And how to make me happy when I’m sad,
Four words: “This too will pass,” and make it snappy,
They’re all I’ve ever known or ever had.