remember "kiddies"
when ‘99 was coming
at us like fat Christmas?
now a millennial
hangover persists
in been-there & done-that
dictions, cold
distractions
& credit treats,
corporate tricks
& digital,
rack rent thieving.
America’s air has broken
its compact
with the sovereign body.
Hungry eyes & ears
are left wanting.
Far from ruined cities,
I live to see the trees
& long to forget the forest.
I’m Basho of the burbs
freed of erotic-ironies
& the canon’s shots.
I shred topical gospels
& I write of gods
with mixed success.
“One can never know
the night if all along
one is the night.”
I try true admissions--
“I’m the place I know
I live at the train line
where gum trees grow
about colorful rubbish,
branching over rusty scab-wire
& green-beds, to where The Bronx River
keeps itself alive along weedy overgrowth
where crickets’ chirr sings to late summer
after the lovers have gone
& the writer’s morning rises
beyond an era’s slow receding.”
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