Tuesday, January 03, 2012

small chunk of black

imagine your way in
to summer '77 nyc
when the city goes
mad from bankruptcy
garbage piled high
son of sam on the hunt

go one imagine it
as you step off
the train in
to what you might
think is the lost world
found again just for you

one could dream, right
because your 10 years old
chump and the toughest thing
you have is a switchblade comb
bought in a joke shop
strum your lyre boy

odysseus is laughing to the gods
you think you're
the star of an exploitation movie
played at half speed
on a stained screen at the deuce
the soundtrack recorded on mars


At 8:21 PM, Blogger Jim K. said...

so many people have forgotten
the imploded nyc, but it was
very, very real

and it had been getting
rough for a long time prior

At 10:33 PM, Blogger richard lopez said...

people can't imagine it nowadays because the city is so gentrified and made by big money.

i am the 10 year old in this piece and remember, at least from media, the imploded nyc. now as an adult i think of it as an age of rusted tin. an anti-golden age that's become my shang-ri-la.

At 12:52 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I love poems of place which grow naturally from the location, rather then seemed scrawled over the top. Your poem has that natural organic quality. A real concrete flower. I've never been to NYC, but if I ever go, I'm going to be thinking of this poem.

At 12:53 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Sorry, Richard, I forgot to add my name.

At 10:32 PM, Blogger richard lopez said...

thanks you, ryan, for your kind words.


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