Posted: May 11, 08 6:21am
Smeared asphalt floorboards,
in the sour house of Lemon city.
Weird here, gutters run full
near the curbs,
the avenue canal runs to the mouth of the sewer.
The sour city's
throat of sorts.
Lemon City, sour,
follow the current, the city’s people,
trample the shadows of one another,
in the dusk of a plowing night.
They force the day
from the day,
out to the sea
of sour city.
Cackles of the crazies, losers in Lemon City,
no wander now, still,
they grumble in their cardboard cabanas.
Sour for them.
This loco theater in Lemon City,
tonight, hosts the rich, spectators of sport.
In the canvas floored ring,
pugilists pound,
gamblers ploy while watching the whipping,
sprayed by spit and blood.
Raucous, luscious, and brutally beautiful,
the spectator’s wedding,
under the kliegs of the arena.
And later…
Cabin chatter, above the crazies in the boxes,
in brownstone bungalows with pricey curb appeal,
we ready the pajamas,
and baby, thank the lord in Lemon City,
we are not down there where the river flows,
at the bottom, in the street, where we’ll walk,
amongst our shadows.
We sleep near a night light’s yellow glow,
the fight is over for now,
in the dark of Lemon City.
Hayward 04
