She angel cried
into our broken future
the poet is a little surprized

how it still dances ghostlike
through haunted houses
of stillness memories

even though it is
many planets away

Spearhead of the past has

to be what breaks through now 

(back when we didnt know how 

to find information or make a 

phone call or look something up)

You asked your friend directions 

and somebody on the street blurted it 

out the danger was what made

NYC good

the dirty edge of not knowing and all the 

queers and their colors of vision and 

showing

the addicts in the park, they are all that remains

after the srip malls took over MY CITY

Ginsburg was free to fight the machine

in the undergound bars uptown 

(whitman could sing us a song of an 

idylic Brooklyn)

My ghosts don't even dream of there anymore