Main St

Stoplights filled the fog

the way paint drops swim through water.

Urban aurora borealis

sunken from the sky into the sewers.

Car headlights swallowed the remaining darkness

in tubes of luminous white

and ghosts from the mufflers

crawled into the night.


The city breathes deep
in its asbestos lungs
and sucks me in,
and with each breath
smoke billows through the air.

Arteries pump thousands
across highways in
their cages of debt,
and with each pulse
shivers crawl up the cracked smoke stacks
lining the heart of it all.

This city is a dying animal
clawing at the lakes
for one last sip.

City Burns

There’s an orange glow
of light on the ceiling
coming from the lower east side of Syracuse
below me.
How fitting.

It streaks across my black walls and plaster
and pollutes the winter fog outside.

How fitting.

And as if upon a castle
that’s more fit for orange jumpsuits
I give this place less credit than it deserves.

The city is not a prison.
Its these walls that hold my heart hostage.

How fitting, that this box aglow with orange burns.