Wednesday, July 22, 2009


I planted myself here
where poems streak by my window like the J train
and the only thing I’m raising are dreams
in the shifting soil underneath manhattan sidewalks

they grow out of cracks, but they grow
where the cows cannot munch their tops off
and no one is bailing them
they are stepped over freely by punk boys and girls and teachers and MTA workers and lovers and students

Was there nothing in the will about east 11th street
And a studio apartment the size of your downstairs bathroom?

I still know how to ride a horse
I’m still not afraid to get muddy
I’m not afraid of pitch black nights silent as sleep
I can still sense which way the road will turn and know when a calf is dying

Its not much different here
Still dirty
With a need for instinct