Smallbany -- The Muse Mongers Motel Poetry Archives

[ Show ]

Support VoyForums

[ Shrink ]

VoyForums Announcement: Programming and providing support for this service has been a labor of love since 1997. We are one of the few services online who values our users' privacy, and have never sold your information. We have even fought hard to defend your privacy in legal cases; however, we've done it with almost no financial support -- paying out of pocket to continue providing the service. Due to the issues imposed on us by advertisers, we also stopped hosting most ads on the forums many years ago. We hope you appreciate our efforts.

Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your contribution is not tax-deductible.) PayPal Acct: Feedback:

Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):

[ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, [2] ]

Subject: Smallbany

Author:
andy

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Date Posted: 01:21:50 01/15/08 Tue

Smallbany

Manhattan's serves oysters
we don't ask their heritage
they are taken with a swallow
and a beer, super-sized,
twenty-four ounces
for the kings.

We discuss interest rates,
the day's market flex,
and the hot young flesh
all within our grasp.
In a sea of people
everyone fits in.

In a place where you
can't see the clouds coming,
where bricks outlast their welcome,
where the hardness is so long
it becomes soft, the steel faces
twisting in forced smiles
across packed rooms
filled with lonely
money soldiers.

It's a stretch to be New York,
even for a city,
where street whores
walk next to high
fashion stick-models,
where wannabe artists
sit on aged benches,
gazing at the brokers
somehow walking faster
than their thoughts.

There's too much
for two eyes to see.
We crawl inside
ours shelters, amongst
the masses for fees
no rural mind could
ever understand.

The lady, stretched torch,
reaches for the fogged sky.
From the distance the plight
of the immigrant's children,
unchanged, it's green paper
and a new styled home,
in Connecticut or Jersey.

The village still breathes,
the echoes of Dylan,
scratching from the speaker
next to a funky picture
of Phil Oches,
and a platinum blonde.

We're older now, yet no one
took over, it's still our job,
beneath our silks, and the
empty talk of speed boats
burning up Lake George.

I hear the Hudson calling me
to Albany, where I know the girl
at the register, where the river
is for fishing Stripers in Cohoes.

I smile, without
the pressure of
impress,

I'm home

ajs

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]