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Nov 232015
 

by Robert Lang 

  

 There is no sadness in the city

where movies are our lives:

Duck Soup.

Beauty concealed with yelling and gold streets.

 

We’re skipping our feet

down the golden pavement,

and we swing our arms

with outsiders to the station,

and our jolly outlook mirrored

as police beam back,

and his honest eyes lie

behind his safety rifle.

 

We bask in the warm

hostility of the A train

speedily reaching West 4th,

but there is no sadness in the city

where movies are our lives.

 

Minstrels sift through

radiant crowds,

each pair of eyes fleeting

quickly stare to the southern tower,

sizing up our freedom.

 

Passing payphones rot

calling their last goodbye,

among the Sisyphean

working for ‘livable wages’.

All to rest in matchboxes

above the golden streets of desire.

 

And in their sleep,

dreams lull them

singing Visions of Johanna

to the meter

of ceaseless streets.

 

They will not care

and will not weep

breathing in their mantra:

there is no sadness in this city

where movies are our lives.