Letter From A Dead City
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
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.