ODE TO MY CITY
Parting with poop is such sweet sorrow,
You're like the Twilight Zone movie,
And I'm Vic Morrow.
New York City full of unexpurgated freedom.
You can scream noony noo noo and not miss a beat.
You can walk down the street covered with dirt
and last night's beer dripping from your chin,
And nobody will even meet your eye.
You can feel as cracked, as warped and yet not feel dwarfed,
Yet hidden in the anonymity of massive cultural expectation,
Are lame ass people to whom Seinfeld is a mirror,
To whom the upper east side is nearer,
To their hearts than dilapidated walls covered with birddou.
Theatrical urgency of a Fat hooker on a Quaalude binge,
Dress sloped triangular, tent-like expression of girth.
Smells expunged in your reacquisiton of self worth,
Like limburger arm pits shaved with Mom's nail file.
I revile and revoke your automatic disproportionate drag queen blues,
But you still put a quarter in to peep the naked Jews.
My tongue could never make it through the jungle of her hair,
Like a worm in my mouth, round and round, gagging.
Abandoned hope of amber waves of pain,
Lick your last purple mountain's majesty,
And take your spacious sky
and shove 7 million really tall buildings in it.
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