Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Movement

Misshapen courtyard is amidst
deconstructive sunbeams, corrugating the brick walls,

some students encircle,
their intervals spaced

wide

as dilated pupils. Somber breaths. Wordless cigarette drags.

Thinned youth,
sloth-pace passing

And passing. And passing.
And swigs of spiked coffee

fatigue,
not vitalize.

Persons straggle,
still. The Underground diggings
not so convenient.

The substitute --crackling thru earphones-- is the hyperreal glitz:
an auto-tuned youth. A kid home from boot camp

scrounges thru his pockets as a taxi huffs.

Departing, dust across the road puffs up in wispy silk flows.
That kinetic vibe of an idle field

remains,
once the revelry clears. My city feels rented.

--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and he remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.

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