A Lettter

My pages have become testimonies Of nothing to say In a state where everyone speaks But little is ever said. These pages have become as vast as Potter’s Field Where every word loses their identity And remain voiceless In this time of static. Every name gives way To serial numbers And everyone who almost won now sleep On top of forgotten losers Who at least owned their own exit Which came with a kiss to the third rail. It is a perfect escape For those of us don’t wish to be found By those who bought New York Lock stock and barrel And forced her on to the stage Under the strippers’ light To dance without an ounce of rusted dignity. Her last on going dream to put on that black leather dress of No Wave and take the El train to the last station still in time when the rats lived behind the walls before they started buying each apartment building with “for rent” signs on all the doors Designed to hide just another crime scene.