The silence -- ours
From the stoic spring,
City September-less,
Not in the Los Angeles
Of neon-facsist oligopoly orgies,
The denial of desert peasant mysticsm.
No, here she is obese:
New York City.
Town,
Rectangular high,
As high as dope in a Park Avenue Y.
This is the game the dharma cards play,
As they sway through our 3D illogic.
The scholars, the sci-fi's,
And Marxists alike,
Strut in little canyons,
Where matter is dumb, senseless, frigid,
In this city of romantic MTV
Of the techno-empire West.
I'd rather be in the Himalayas or Harlem,
On a midnight trian to now.
Well no, but everything goes
And nothing is
In this midnight dream of the city.
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