I do not miss the winters,  
the bitter wind burning numb.  

I do not miss the zombies,  
who tremble to the flows in their veins,  
or looking the other way  
and someone freezes to death  
on a cold sidewalk  
beneath sterile glass towers  
that do not hear me when I yell:  
That I am a poet!  
That I am an anarchist!  
That this city will walk all over us!  
And still, this city is home.  
A place to run from, to run to  
after every failure and heartbreak.  
There is beauty in the grime:  
the rumbling L tracks  
the broken traffic lights  
the sharp tongues of the working class,  
the blood  
the sweat  
the dysfunction,  
a pace too quick to count,  
gears twisted into dada machines  
to form concrete soups.  
It is up all night in open revolt  
and 6:00 A.M. coffees, watching  
zombies(well-dressed) walk in  
for their morning pick-up.  
It is the breath  
of the underbelly's red pulsing beat.  
A universe within a universe-  
with words and thoughts  
shot into atmospheres  
with complete disregard.  
Proof that we can defy  
the world will stand still  
the leviathon will become  
Written by mbass33 (matthew bass)
Published | Edited 18th Dec 2014
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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