Yes, New York City. This time of years.
I can’t stay in my room that passes for rent.
Somehow I’m nothing without the trouble of garbage and the falling of heroes and the yelling of subways.
High lines and low times and fractured dreams and hated schemes.
Ravens in flight point the way to survive
filters for a global consciousness.
End of days is always starting.
Youth is neverending tiger manifestos –
quotations further than the green line of manic depressions and headless
obsessions and the one thing that left
impressions on the digressions of assiduous treaties.
Like an Alamo or a dollar bill.
Vulgarity and virginity
humility and hucksterism.
Gladiators and endless war.
Grateful and
led thankless
by The Dead.
“Friction and crunch!” go the cytoplastic rainmaker rewards
for “Follow me I’ll follow you.”
Float in space. You’re riding with us.
We’ll hit the end of town and turn around and hit the end of town and turn around and hit the end of town and turn around
until you take heed of our dragon wings
and that we are never bored,
or all that detatched / no matter how much
we complain New York City needs
street signs to ‘Caution: Nature.’
for gregory corso
05 jan 2011 12:38a; 02 march 2011 11:21p