Why do I still make love to the city which sits

On the other side of my window

Waiting for the final eviction notice from its place in time

And forgotten in Potter’s Field

Nameless in ruin

in this neon night

to lay to waste

in the meaningless arcade

of shock treatment futures

that are not futures

but blank canvass

and

stripped of its myths

and language

with the burning blue flame

that

brought the final winters’ snow

as pure and white as ancient Rome

and silent depravity.



All for a stranger I never asked to meet.



2



Do you know the supernova that has consumed the city’s voice



or the resentment of what’s left behind



born of the Clorox tide which has wiped clean



all memories of those who flung themselves out of their SRO windows



to taste the pavement



if for only one last moment



the source of their torment?



The essence never really recedes

Even in suicide time

On some strange night

During a rare blackout in the city

You can go into any of those rooms

and still feel the moment when the rope tightened

And the neck snapped

And the great escape achieved.