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There are just so many times that you can risk absurdity
making deals with dead art forms
recalled
when you hit rock bottom
in an effort
to rise where the angels place their bets on
how the energy of the city will break
and wash over the fragmented faces of the grid
before we are slammed down onto the concrete
under the shadow of millionaires row
of 86 street
down into the subway stations
and through the turnstiles
where the homeless
pick through the lost tickets
to recuperate some of what they gambled
away.
This is where they scream the name of Jesus
and profanities before they give their voice over
to the metallic on metallic screech
of the cars that pass
but they fade into the soundboard
where the other beggars sing off-key
and they know that there will be no weeping wall or
Jerusalem for those who die under the watchful eye of
Rabbi roach and Father rat who tend to their bones,
before they are sent to Potter’s Field
where even the sick flower of industry fails to digest
with its perfect mockery
all that remains of the
parade of the doomed.
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