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our father who art in a penthousesits in his 37th floor suiteand swivels to gaze downat the city he made me inhe allows me to stand andsollicit graffiti untilhe needs the land I stand on
I in my darkened thresholdam pawing through my pocketsthe receipts, the bus schedulesthe matchbook phone numbersthe urgent napkin poemsall of which laundering has renderedpulpy and strangeloose change and a keyask mego ahead, ask me if I care
I got the answer here
I wrote it down somewhere
I just gotta find it
I just gotta find itsomebody and their spraypaint got too closesomebody came on too heavynow look at me made uglyby the drooling letters
I was better off aloneain't that the way it isthey don't know the first thingbut you don't know thatuntil they take the first swingmy fingers are red and swollen from the cold
I'm getting bold in my old ageso go ahead, try the doorit doesn't matter anymore
I know the weakhearted are strongwilledand we are being kept aliveuntil we're killedhe's up there the iceis clinking in his glass
I don't ask
I just empty my pockets and waitit's not fateit's just circumstance
I don't fool myself with romance
I just livephone number to phone numberdusting them against my thighsin the warmth of my pocketswhich whisper history incessantlyasking mewhere were you
I lower my eyeswishing I could cry moreand care less,yes it's true,I was trying to love someone again,I was caught caring,bearing weightbut I love this city, this statethis country is too largeand whoever's in charge up therehad better take the elevator downand put more than change in our cupor else weare comingup
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