Suburbia

The privilege of Suburbia is to commute.
So, give me communism on a single downtown route.
I take it, to do what the Romans do
when back in Rome, or Moscow, or Katmandu.

As for the name, the Roman.
The name defies the man,
sometimes denies.
That's what the talk's about.
The Roman is Suburbia, the lout,
the conquering, well-fare, commuting kind,
illiterate like Shakespeare before he died,
religious, militant, bone-lazy,
perfidious, irrelevant, born crazy,
a stone's throw, a half hour ride,
and you are... here still, on the division line.
Where you reside,
there you resign.

It's less than more,
it's recreation steps that take us
to the Maker's dozen, sore
as hell to find a place to dwell
that's more or less resemblance
of the original Americas,
before, or after, the initial spurt,
some Boston runners, - anybody hurt?
It's less than grief, or sorrow, or
yes, memory of more,
much less,
so useless, so
loin-deep,
the creeping warmth of just another care
for anybody close enough to matter,
words as thoroughfare bare
bone, to hang some meaning at her;
it's less than overunderstood,
or underestimated,
words are not construed,
they are anticipated;
just like some Caesar ready for
some Brutus to deliver him ashore,
so sea-sick,
Stab me in the mouth,
he says,
I'm Roman, I commute,
I run about.
So poor, so communist, so destitute.


3 мая 2016 г.