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I am a city
by Mark StoneI am no simple compound of virtue
A picket fence smiling glibly to its lawn
Or a puritanical box whitewashed pure and empty as God—
No
I am a city
From the sewers flushed with rats
And rushing roaring subways
Where broken hearted poets sleep in cardboard boxes
To orchards where philosophers stroll
Among the apple blossom reciting ghazzals
To the carcinogenic grey of the offices
Where business men in shirts
Type and die slow deaths to the steady drum
Of an Invisible Hand that taps
Upon the window pane
Upon the window pane—
I am not one of these
But all of them
I am no simple compound of virtue
11/21/2012 Author's Note: ...
Posted on 11/21/2012
Copyright © 2024 Mark Stone
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 11/21/12 at 01:05 PM I feel the heart of Ginsberg in this piece. Very well done! |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/21/12 at 03:34 PM Instantly relateable. I love it. |
| Posted by David Maurice on 11/22/12 at 02:06 AM I love the poem, dislike the last line. |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 11/23/12 at 05:10 PM ...mark, i hear you, bubba, i hear you...love your write, a keeper. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/24/12 at 09:00 PM Good to see this as POTD! |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 01/30/13 at 02:00 PM Thought provoking piece, Mark. I like the possibilities, some of which you've illustrated, in describing yourself as a city. Glad to have made your acquantance. |
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