The city that I harbor
such a distaste for
has also swallowed up
part of my heart
not into the depths
of the subway
or even the sewer,
but into a tower
overlooking the hudson
Gum spots like holes in the universe
cover everything
chunks missing out of the reality
approach a critical mass
like millions of black holes
ready to collapse to collect
this place into itself for ever
Jerk, lurch,
voiceless silence
gears and grease guts talk
in languid languages
beneath the asphalt surface
wet with winter approach
below they talk
and above we talk
The most serious people in my life have never
worn suits
so I am always dumbfounded
when I see suits
making decisions for
large masses of people
Brazilian man on subway
In train tunnel turrets
distinguished in denim
A body thick with life
closed eyes held with heavy arches
of skin and time, lumber down to his
jowls, where meditative solitude
has worn and built his skin,
his mask that holds a latent image
of gentleness and rage
- that which sleeps inside all of us,
His slumber is not roused by the
shoulders, feet, and asses
that hover around him like lazy flies
the psychological skin is so thick
they nor the inanimate shakings and rakings
of the train pierce through to him
He hibernates
in cream shirt split open like
a patients skin
where shoulders dictate buttons
and an open chest
His daily belongings: umbrella, denim jacket
cradled in his barreled arms
fingers full and locked lengthwise
broad barely broken brow
mimics the curve and fortitude of his back
where the weight of the world is held
in his slumber
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