| a cold and porcelain lonely
|
| in an old new york hotel
|
| a stranger to a city
|
| that she used to know so well
|
| bathing in a bathroom
|
| that is bathed in the first blue light
|
| of the beginning of a century
|
| at the end of an endless night
|
| then she is wet behind the ears and wafting down the avenue
|
| pre-rush hour
|
| post-rain shower
|
| stillness seeping upwards like steam
|
| from another molten sewer
|
| summer in new york
|
| they’ve been spraying us with chemicals in our sleep
|
| us / they
|
| something about the mosquitoes having some kind of disease
|
| them / me CIA foul play
|
| if you ask the guy selling hair dryers out of a gym bag
|
| chemical warfare
|
| «i'm telling you, lab rat to lab rat,"he says, «that's where the truth is at»
|
| that’s where the truth is at that’s where the truth is at and everything seems to have gone terribly wrong that can
|
| but one breath at a time is an acceptable plan
|
| she tells herself
|
| and the air is still there
|
| and this morning it’s even breathable
|
| and for a second the relief is unbelievable
|
| and she’s a heavy sack of flour sifted
|
| her burden lifted
|
| she’s full of clean wind for one lean moment
|
| and then she’s trapped again
|
| reverted
|
| caged and contorted
|
| with no way to get free
|
| and she’s getting plenty of little kisses
|
| but nobody’s slippin' her the key
|
| her whole life is a long list of what ifs
|
| and she doesn’t even know where to begin
|
| and the pageantry of suffering therein
|
| rivals television
|
| tv is, after all, the modern day roman coliseum
|
| human devastation as mass entertainment
|
| and now millions sit jeering
|
| collectively cheering
|
| the bloodthirsty hierarchy of the patriarchal arrangement
|
| she is hailing a cab
|
| she is sailing down the avenue
|
| she’s 19 going on 30
|
| or maybe she’s really 30 now …
|
| it’s hard to say
|
| it’s hard to keep up with time once it’s on its way
|
| and, you know, she never had much of a chance
|
| born into a family built like an avalanche
|
| and somewhere in the 80s between the oat bran and the ozone
|
| she started to figure out things like why
|
| one eye pointed upwards looking for the holes in the sky
|
| one eye on the little flashing red light
|
| a picasso face twisted and listing down the canvas
|
| of the end of an endless night
|
| 10 9 8 seven six 5 4 three 2 one
|
| and kerplooey
|
| you’re done.
|
| you’re done for.
|
| you’re done for good.
|
| so tell me did you?
|
| did you do did you do all you could? |