Requiem for the Suburbanite Knights of Union County

Another day begins in the asphalt sprawl As the leaves turn brown, dry, die and fall

and urbanite saints sweat in old paint-stained overalls

covering cinder-block walls with honey-dew hues and cleaning out pissed-on bathroom stalls;

More Trailer park homes and Willowbrook Malls, Uncles ashamed to answer telephone calls.

Another dawn of teenage tragedies that go on behind closed doors,

More of the same rat-trap allure for the television-drunk media whores,

the advertisement junkies, who get high on polished J crew clothing,

and sales expanded from self-loathing, artificial desire to stay cool, stay Hip,

More of the same Lisa Fitz heartaches and Community College blues,

alcoholic mothers, fathers, brothers, lovers who abuse booze and lose

touch, without a care for the fistfuls of hair in the bathroom sink, torn out

in grief and rage because dad couldn’t think of somebody other than himself;

More long-distance calls That you make to Iraq, crying and waiting for him to call back

and low moans on the telephone, when he tells you he’ll be coming home soon

Another dream committed suicide today, jumped from the Verrazano-Narrows

Would rather slam it’s Head into the New York Bay than say Hey, May I take your order for one more fucking day,

East-side mind glide by find peace in the sprawl, make sense of  it all,

Pick up the glove and play ball,

and if you don’t,

Then there’s the door;

just give our regards to whoevers out there