Poetry

city living

A city with its tendrils
is connecting to the various
avenues in my mind;

the quiet dewdrop fields will
not save me, they will not allow me
to flee my own self, so

I plug into this concrete maze
and wait for the noise to
silence my insanity.

Walking along I know
that the street must rise up with
limbs and wrap its great big

concrete thumbs around our
necks, legs, or our frontal lobes
on fire; oh, to let that thumb

dig into me, pulling out the
matter of memory and wiping
it across the clouds.

Kevin Crispin

What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it’s my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It’s certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.


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