R. Richard Wojewodzki
 
 
 
 

City Poem

 
 
 
 

I       My city                           the city I love you And walking like broken brick  Sidewalks Leaning on one another, re(a)d.     People moving reading Maps newspapers menus parking tickets   And we breathe this  and hurry on. Everyone moving—in place out of Place—like fish slippery       Fish in a bakery      Sold on streets fresh risen. My city, Nancy quarrels with her  neighbor And buys liquor from cornershop, Smoking             exhaustpipes on early morning Winter trafficjams. New England  city.      18th century 19th traffic patterns And we walk and stare at horns Blaring and construction,  the bridge Is almost complete.  North End we race for the water And what is not built of it.     This is the city now  a mess of Architecture.  We love that mess, we Emblazoned on city walls                           Burnt out and alleys crunching under Feet and rats bowling in dumpsters (in their own street; Their own opinions/addresses).     I fall in love in my city, I live through Lunch, I drink too much.                                         Everyone Boiling about  like traffic in a stew.       II       This was in [enter city] before the renewal. We sat on the pane smoking                    The city below hushing itself Traffic slow                                        Deliberate Drunk. And we heard shouting And deep deep bass,  the bass Of a throat thumping.  And Plastic bags traded and                                         Hoots Some argument and skin slapping slickly (almost) gentle.     This is the beauty of  night On nameless street under orange lightpolluted sky;  the sound of Traffic and a drug deal.    Beatitude and love.     One is Presented with life and one Sits on a window pane under the Glow of the rusticated Tower And one smokes more and smiles.     Give me your hand, lend me your Ear.  Pump bass into my spine And thump and hoot.  Our love is A deal in public before headlights              Under night skies like cities raging Bearing teeth shining the traffic out of their Throats.   Cadillacs and yellow lights Blinking out their minds.       III       My brain is planned on a grid.    I can Not think in curves and                                                lumps;      Only in stars  shined down on Glaring headlights  plowing through Long straight lines  across the city’s Grid.     My love is planned on a grid.  I can Not make love in an empty woods, Only in high-rent low-square footage Where we feel the humans in the walls Pressing upon us,  urging us on Into the history of the room much rented Our love broad city streets Headlight ejaculate.       IV       Thank god for rats  reminder of life   In a broken lighted alley purple.     Rats squashed and rats running, Alike the conscience of the black Asphalt and concrete stoop. Tire squeals And arguments in Portuguese.     The city seems                          upsidedown tonight     We press on seeking stars and drink Specials.  But rats work the night Lost in noir light.                 And everytime some Heart falls for another  The rats commend the producer for a  Job well commanded. The rats commend the civil engineer The rats commend the urban plan The rats commend the logic of sweating black street screeching All made of street lust guiding tongues through traffic Abscondations.

  (c)R. Richard Wojewodzki 2003