791 II

It´s like a whip in in these project nights

as if these high rise concrete buildings

where the window lights go out one by one

like a whiplash to them skies above in diamond

pillars

going out

as if we were never meant to go any further as we

had no choice but to turn the lights out and never ask

for anything but sleeping subway trains and closing

hot dog stands as if this was all we were promised

as we were never more than slaves born only

to wake up with the alarm clock siren to

another day in the machine making machine

As if my patrons of the diesel dunking heart

rain shine arteries were never there

as if the shining neon snakes that wriggle through the nights

of ice to warmth to harbor
as if those dawns
were never there

as if my kingdom of the destitute, the homeless and the drunk

were not your fears
and punch clock worries

as if they did not not guard the tired, lost and weary 

As if she wouldn´t 

once

the kids asleep

quietly

put a Violetta Parra record on the gramophone

leaning on the railings of her balcony

watch the Somalian kids

talking quietly

outside the closed down
super market and the taxi driver

finishing his cigarette

and my diesel dunking kingdom taking off from concrete key

entering the shallow waters of the rivers grey of dawn just as a

tired woman

coughs her sleep away and

turns in her seat

returns to dream

she

sends a prayer from her balcony

for her children

concrete homes

it´s dwellers

for all those this

project made 

crusaders

outsiders

morons

singers

the crystal lightning high rise wonders and their

dusty daylight waiting for  

and all those in it here and now and ever