Once these vertical valleys were reserved
for mountains, Daredevil sparrows, Sons
failing from sun-stroke, evicted angels
meteorites; gaseous glow, stars and other
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxspecks of space spit

oh, no more—

rivets, sparkle, and man-power un-impress
pedestrians: staunch civilians walk the spirals;
stuff the elevators of the Sword of Civilization
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxximpressive
the spear stands and doesn’t spindle
to string: strands of DEATH FROM ABOVE

our heads. Praise to blueprints as
Phallic Man pleasures the sky. I’m Impressed
with the flower of this city. Sorry,

others who wish it’d be sucked into soil
with seeds and celebrity corpses. Sully
Inmates sick of the Sky’s Ulcer, pushing a spiked
shadow from the tall stall

sting and saline as eyes spy; skirt up God’s shimmering shin
:
tourists straining to catch pennies in their eye sockets

On a

congregation of mud, gelling on granite steps taken for granted
CLACK goes the hobo’s cups; germs jitterbugging on grunting
geriatrics and their spot stained mitts choke gracious railing
A CALL a cell call for all to hear; it makes another cell ring a call
such an early time to feed the energy of “You’ve missed me.”
acrylic sprinters are late to be laid off or lay into a CLACKING
keyboard. The tall stall is their stable; the clouds are a
cotton fable. And the blue sky that spreads over the glass
is a cotton picking lie.

Oh,
I Pity the proxies of productivity, this
pulse of industry: small spiders shuffle
in a mother’s sack.
:
inanimate inmates shuffle like penguins on fire
these are the brief stints of barely movement that they lament.
As they gaze over white specks scamper
like baby scorpions on their mother.

They don’t know the sun better than me
than any of the ten-thousands below;
they don’t feel superiority—those who swivel with the gods
they don’t feel anything up there just the

pigeons who gladly; cooly coo and clash
into the glass
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx:
produced by people; protects people
protects profits and prevents suicides

produced by people; filled by people
who had hoped for more. Except
for the window washer. Who
hopes for less.