The street lights crush me
with their hushed anonymity -
This city is shallow
It's marrow is the hollow vacuole space
Cars' headlights trace
the EKG of this bleeding, bored, dull hum.
Sirens pollute the soundscape
You know~
Those standing in line books that chatter incessantly:
Airport newsstand fodder where the characters are the stock-
And that soupy drivel is way too thin.
You have my attention
Go on...
.....and on and on and on and on.....
These cars are ants saying uncle to the queen
It screams at you. Her green eyed glance bores a hole through your pocket.
Exposing your...
private parts.
Turning you into a whore,
who is so all about the game,
that you turn to whores.
Your pimp has you convinced that she has a monopoly on necessity.
She is food, shelter, and clothing.
Every portrait passed is a silent agreement-
your stocks shot into their tracks.
Their higher wages are a shot in the arm,
at least to your economy.

Industry does not stop.

Excess does not balance.

Concrete does not breathe.

Death does not wait.