NEW YORK... WHEN IT SPITS...

Some misshapen thing w/a mean tattoo
Some chic, urban island of random cool
Some street corner cat steady screaming: “REVOLUTION!”
Some mythic steely smile, w/ its front teeth missing...

Some blues-chick blonde diggin’ on black sounds...
Some den of poor poets all tryna be profound...
Some Jeep's street banger w/ a hip-hop fury.
Some downbeat varicose bluecity alley.

Some screaming people howling how their lives are so shitty.
Some shafts of pink neon painting everybody... pretty.

Some east village hipster decked in all black drag...
Some tripped-out tranny, keeps vogueing all fab
Some ditzy debutante on the cover of a mag...
Some pissed-off black man who can’t hail a cab.

Some carefree limousine flying down Fifth Ave...
Some subway atrocity, but what else is new?
Some Wall Street slick thief finally paying his dues...
Some poor soul in winter, cries, devoid of any shoes.

Some glossy picture postcard you had as a kid...
Some whore's fishnets, revealing everything she did.
Some terrible sickness that's left unchecked...
Some two-bit priest w/ a Messiah Complex.

Some bleeding fist swingin in some ig’nit beatdown
Some new minority w/ his face on the ground...
Some canyon full of sirens, w/ not a single cop around
Some scream that gets drowned by the constant citysound...

Some black poet cat that keeps taking steady notes
‘Bout a tribe of soulless eyes… devoid of any hope.
We joke, we smoke, we sip on our Snapple
While choking on the core of what’s called:
“The Big Apple.”



One.




copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross

Junkie

Yesterday, I ran into an old friend who has, over the years, fallen on hard times. Much of this was due to Life and its disappointments, personal weakness and the failure to overcome the adversities we all face. It saddened me how he could have been me, or I could have been him. It saddens me still because between us there are very few differences. After speaking with him last night, I was haunted enough to light a candle for him, and then to write this poem.



JUNKIE


Funky
Skunky
Untrustworthy
Junkie, I might just be
Your only friend
Left.

Maybe ’cause
You haven’t yet
Robbed
My car,
Broken into
My home,
Stolen my TV
And DVR.
You have not
Abused my trust
Turned my love
Into tainted
Dust… or
Made empty
Promises
I knew you
Couldn’t keep.

Yes, I’ve still
Got your back
Because maybe,
Just maybe
I’m nothing but
An addict too…
A junkie, scratching
The scabs of my
Sordid history
With you. I keep
Feeding off
Lost years of
Pick-up b-ball games
And Converse All-Stars
Mainlining
Good Moments and
Memories
Into my veins…




And now I’ve become
Some strange form of
Junkie…
Jittering to
This music
Of a past…
Tripping on times
When laughter made
Jazz and sparks in
A summer night’s
Darkness
And it was cool
To be young and
Foolish, too.

Maybe we’re all
Just junkies
Holding onto
Dreams
Tight as
Hypodermic
Needles…
Always looking for that
Transitory fix

See everyone
I know
Clings to
Something,
To someone
Or some shit
That may never
Come to be…



And so we
Junk ourselves
Away from
Reality. We stifle
We dope
We medicate our
Silent aches
With placebos
With nicotine
With liquor
With amphetamines
With something
That makes disaster
Seem a little more like
A dream.

Funky
Skunky
Untrustworthy
Junkie, I might just be
Your only
Friend left. Maybe
‘Cause beneath
The scratching,
Leaning palsy and
The slow-mo ballet
Just maybe I see…




How my veins
Have collapsed
From the weight of
My dreams
How my desires
Have atrophied
From someone
Else’s schemes
And my fingers
Wear sores and
Skid-marks
From clawing
And clinging to
Some illusive shit
That may never
Come to be.



The only difference is:

I’VE NEVER STOPPED
Believing.


One.