“A city cannot be a work of art. When we deal with cities
we are dealing with life at its most complex and intense. Because this is so, there is a basic esthetic limitation on what can be done with the city.”
A mess of unconnected organs
severed with gunk built up
at arteries allotting congestion.
cross-guard spring fashion
until a severed tumor doesn’t fall
but is unhinged by surgeons
A newborn slapped
then set down.
A wound pocket watch responds
to a determined faucet
questioning whether the pipes have frozen.
A leak swims on toward
moon mist fogs from below a bridge.
Central park and the river;
A fox runs along the bank
to understand if the river has courage
or is just runs on instinct --
and you’re not stumbling over your words again.
I could kiss you but I won’t
you haven’t read enough of me lately.
Keep time sing song I tell you
replying “tick-tock, tick-tock.”
“No,” I say.
“A watch only goes with one sound.”
Can’t confirm this. I’m a glorified liar now.
I’m an agoraphobic in a radiant city pavilion
hemorrhaging parks that land in pools
of garden posies pontificating boldly
of L’Esprit Nouveau
I see Art Deco.