i.
crooklyn do or die in the hustlebustle
microphone tussle,
the dj is fly do or die from jamaica plains to bed-stuy
brothers be like fleshnbone slinkies
melting cardboard glaciers.  out here we tend to hoard
what is not rightly provided; t'was an
abritrary expressway through the south bronx pole
that fashioned hip hop from the curb;
we took a cue from old momma raygun
but let our scorn trickle upwards
instead.

ii.
just a hair from the cyclone,
and a massive dream dangles in the air
like a whaler's catch that might get away.
hoboes with oboes and faded guess logos
munching on corndog logs outside nathan's,
the boardwalk is a bullseye of diversion,
and sooner or later, winter's desert is real
and the hoboes look like tumbleweed
and the boardwalk becomes a bowling lane
waiting patiently for the balls (of feet) to roll.

iii.
floating on the crest of an enigma
beats her spine: the bongo drum of some plonky hum,
an essence so far unknowable, but never glum.
those sunrises were wrapped
in the warm gauze of a fordham lobby,
when to hurry was a sin, and not a hobby.
all pretense flung aside
to the gentle vagaries of the hudson's mood.

iv.
dust is their home now,
was all he could figure, lying supplicant
in a well-planned tomb.  wuz just
sippin a latte with some bmw bolsheviks
on canal, when the first roar announced itself
like a presidential candidate.

sure bush knew
but lookin' round here, not much
but hints remain of what was once
fleshloveshowerfuckeatworkplay and then pay
what about that
israeli-amerikan moving company
that vacated one tower
a week before the attacks
what about unprecedented put-options
on united and american stock the week prior
not to mention the $25 million
unclaimed from that insider gem
what about the violation
of standard federal aviation operating procedures
no fighter jets until a half-hour later
ya know
the hardest part of dissecting a conspiracy
is staring too hard, like a mime,
at what is not a mystery.

v.
what waleed thinks, driving a cab through queens:
possible college, law degree
delusion, next stop: quite suitable future
as the chosen puppet of the last metropole.
your real address will then be wall street,
quite a small street
compared to the primeval boulevards of baghdad.

now their troops have returned, for target practice,
plus veiled chicks who just get in the way,
land mines spread like massive sinister coins,
ubiquitous looting and absconded treasures,
as saddamy gets paraded through the tabloids
and osama sucks down cranberry vodkas on the vegas strip.

i suppose you wanna take this trip
because my fare to riverside
is just not enough.