Monday, July 17, 2006

Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Gold Coast

So many ghosts on First Street.
You can almost hear their whispered

lament: Something about dying
as these hoary bricks

crumble before towering phalluses,
the 24-karat ingot weight

of your spectacular
views and mortgages.

So quaint, you think.
First a factory floor,

then the coldwater flat
of an artist.

And you "love" artists.
You love them to death.

You'll even keep a few
around, like pets,

jesters in the court
of the golden man.

But there's a charge
for visions evicted,

portraits unpainted,
scraps never reimagined

into intricate mosaics
and maps of the mind,

for the musician's
silenced grace note

that might, for once,
have moved you.

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