Stories banging, poem-isms, installations,
Photographs, clicking cube-ism, impression-ism
Warhol, Dechamp, Pollack,crashing cone-isms.
Trump Tower, tumbling, thumping Two Boys, KGB Bar.
Patti LaPone, a black Yale lady lawyer
Working for Viacom and lunch at
The Harvard Club-ism.
Today the City maliciously
Away the single
Man’s creative energy. Mine-ism.
Becoming November cold rain.
Ism-stories come crawling
Then pounding, pouring, pleasing
Down into the pavement.
Out of control like a torrid of zombies,
As fog creeps above,
Suffocating Central Park trees.
O, don’t we all come into this life with
A mother’s single prayer of having
Ten little pink fingers and toes?
Bare feet. Bareheaded.
My vulnerable bare body
Quickly clothed in apparel,
Dividing the rich from the poor.
Shame from the shameless.
My journey forced floating down
The same nameless mysterious river,
Holding on for dear life, to useless
Secrets. Always rowing, always rowing,
The line. Yet you
Reveling, revealing soaking up truths. Yet for me
They’re like leftover whispers of dry land lies.
I casually look down at your solid
Feet walking the same flowing
Street and yet see our shoes, souls
Do not meet. Smooth
Dark leather, richness conceals the elite
And other foolish foolish-isms.
O, you with your lucky
Mother prayered proud toes.
Yet mine hide
Like a tortoise
In a broken makeshift canvas shell
Attempting to make sense of this
Of my arrhythmic artistic cardiac
Before my die-ism.