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.