Letter From A Dead City

Third Draft

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?

We sit in Shiva under the neon night

There are no prayers here.

Those long distance meditations

Have come at too high of a price

And are no replacements for the telephone.

They only dentin the sensation

Of being flushed out of your apartment

And lay in waste

in the meaningless arcade

of exile futures

that are not futures

but blank canvass


stripped of our names

and language

and place

and art

under the heat of the burning blue flame


brought the final winters’ snow

as pure and white as ancient Rome

and silent depravity.

All for a stranger I never asked to meet.


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.

It is the ghost of ruin

and the price of beauty

that the body must pay in full.

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 silence flowered

And the great escape achieved.

Comments 2 comments

Shyron E Shenko profile image

Shyron E Shenko 3 years ago

Good hub.

maab30 profile image

maab30 3 years ago from News And Art From The Left Author


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