Against my better judgment I am posting this poem, which I wrote to honor the thousands upon thousands of artists slain in battle with this giant city.
East of Manhattan
New York, we come to you to dash our dreams
against your rocks and hear our wishes squish
between the toes of skyscrapers.
We come to make your coffee, fix your drinks,
we come to wash your dishes
and answer your telephones. New York, we come
to organize your files. And–
there is no easy way to put this, New York–
you have a lot of work to do.
So the novel, the poem, the painting, the play —
the sculpture, the screenplay, the operetta which rests
like a glowing coal against my belly wall
and which once threatened
to engulf the world in flames —
Well, that will just have to wait.