I use a yellow pencil to write banana thoughts,
and linger under hot summer afternoons
debating myself between cold beer and frozen vanilla
milkshakes.

All uniqueness has been transferred to cheap
sweatshops in china
where yellow faceless men handcraft hipsters and
graffiti art walls.
While the cleaning brigade secretly sprays the
sidewalks with fake spit and dirty wax wrappers.

My cheeks are plump and soft.
I look at my self in the mirror,
make funny faces
and wonder what will happen when the heat wave finally
hits New York.

 

I live in this misty dream a noisy life.
I don't listen to myself speak any more,
just a current of automated words rumble throw the
refurbished
half priced streets of this city.
Nothing is left of the zest and zeal of the past.

Nothing seems very full, or clear or meaningful.
Stubborn fleas and pants full of holes fill my nights
with empty dreams
of stars and clouds nobody seams to remember existed.
Once in a while an echoed voice through a distant
telephone line throws me back into a loveless limbo,
dressed with someone’s else’s underwear