Fucking Grateful for New Fucking York
a poem about how great it is to be back for a quick visit
New Fucking York
Brook Fucking lyn
Lower Fucking East Side
Gets blown, gets right
in your eyes. Up your nose
through the tunnels of your veins.
Obviously an upper.
Still definitely down.
three shots and a fucking beer-brained
alive again after 8 months of fucking
something else
maybe present, memory-pained.
Every kind of every, kind of beautiful
serious woman walking away.
Cost of gilded-semi-serfdom still somehow high, but still, piled up
on the sidewalk—desperate dreams, handed-down cuisines
and just the best fucking bars.
(Too bright, too loud, to see, the stars.)
Clearly still has its everything expensive
fucking claws in me.
Did my best to hide the blood.
New stains on my teeth
scars on my skin
and lines on my face.
Still damn doggy paddling
in every other city too
sometimes true.
Fuck it.
Fucking New
Fucking York
Fuck You.
