The log-book has us still adrift
between two rocks, with the green
astroturf of success on the one
and the snotty green slime
on the other, with the exclusive
I got my tailor made life on one,
and mine I found in the garbage
on the other, sirens on the one
are high-heeled, silver-spooned
dolce vita, diamond-studded,
on the other they are loud
ear-splitting curses and screeches
fak you fak you cry the seagulls
Hart and I look at each other
we change course
toward the snotty green slimed
rock, to the run-down, to the poverty,
to the I have a shit existence,
to the untouchable, to the unlikeable
to the meek and mild that do not inherit
to the perpetual crime scene on Saturday
to the people
we made a choice
as did Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes,
We will join the sirens, and blare and blare
from the top of the project housing
from the top of mobile homes
from the top of gravestones in the cemetery
fak you fak you cry the sea gulls.
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