The Street

there is a street in America made of concrete and steel and glass a street of sin and lust made of paint and brushes and canvas where aging artists smoke camels and dream of the good days made of coffee and biscoti and joy women pace through space made of sex and breasts and cunts dancers dance through the void of memories lost made of drugs and pills and needles songs are sung on this street made of concrete and steel and glass songs made of kerouac and Ginsberg and Whitman songs made of dreams of the good days and the dancers dance until they fall I remember the day I died mostly because it yells through the synapsis made of electric impulses and sweet emotion somewhere down on Sullivan Street Mr. Jones counted crows that flew over a street in america made of concrete and steel and glass I want to go back I want to be whole I want to remember the good days make them again out of concrete and glass and actors and dancers on a stage but instead I stand in my highrise apartment listening to cars on the highway I remember the day I was born because my mother told me stories made of fantasy and dreams and tears broken glass diamonds on the finger of a girl I am lost on this American street made of concrete and steel and window pains and sorrow and gut wrenching joy I don't remember my hometown will you tell me I want to go back I want to be whole I want to remember the good days and make them again out of broken dreams and broken glass and broken reality but you won't help I can't hear you singing anymore I can only see you cry © on May 16 2001 04:20 PM PST   0 • 10