// commented out; (stabswithspoon) wrote in moosespresso,
// commented out;
stabswithspoon
moosespresso

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it is so easy writing down the projection of feelings i

have for this incomprehensible city of theirs – not mine, but

theirs -- of the ghetto and the streets i walk everyday, and

the construction, like it’s thinking -- the city is thinking -- about

its emotional state, the city is contemplating itself, running itself

for governor or Senate; buying its houses and reselling, and

fixing itself up ----

 

 the city is fixing itself up, in a state of perpetual improvement,

with the groaning of buses at all motherfucking hours of the night

and sirens that never stop to contemplate the silence they destroy,

and drunk college kids, running through the rain, running to the art museum

up Spring Garden, across its expressway, into the traffic, across the

Sckukyll,

counting only even numbers and the graffiti spraypainted and buffed out

along live wire walls

 

  on live wire walls, the city spins with chapped, dry lips,

closing its people into stereotypical neighborhoods to

protect them from each other,

keeping the gayborhood away from the ghetto and

center city separate from old city;

naming its phallic bars appropriately, keeping its sleazy flashers chained at the forum,

with a mop. The city works to allocate, equivocate, acquiesce, knight its own; the city works hard.

 

  the city rides SEPTA to work every morning,

and the city is always late; how do we tell if this is

SEPTA or philadelphia at fault?

maybe the city really lives in new jersey like half of the people who work here;

maybe it rides PATCO in from Collingswood every morning for $2.15, then

gets off at 8th and market

 

  the city gets off on its endless marquee and its prominently displayed time

and its cira center with breast cancer ribbons illuminated in the windows at night,

moving, spelling out words, spelling out hope, spelling.

  it gets off on its old, dog-walking crowd through Rittenhouse and its secret

culture hiding between fifth and sixth streets; it hides the important glories between the

numbers; it hides the young between the old;

 

 the city smokes a joint with the young,

has a drink in the bars in old city with the fake,

fucks a lamp while bumping crystal meth until 6am, and then hides its face;

  the city, like our nation, doesn’t know how to be honest and so is disjointed;

the city walks down market street into and out of the ghetto until

it reaches city hall;

the city stops and stares in awe at the eerie green ben fraklin

and walks expertly down broad street,

     empty and begging for change

begging for change.

 

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