New York Poem

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New York Poem



Brooklyn Bridge!
Your poets will drown of you,
in the white seas of Mexico and Cuba.
We’ll blow out our brains
in Russian revolutionary roulette,
purging ourselves first of love,
in confusion in
summer homes in the Cape dunes,
in high sands of the sun’s
high moments of prosperity,
with cool fruit, seltzer,
and lots of ice, sweat and sunburn.
that we’ll step on!
We’ll smash up
the mainstream as your poets do,
out of the artist cabarets
of capital cities full of future.
The future!
I’ll sing of the high
north bridge, the mad steel
Queensboro Bridge.
Its gala, groovy blue lights show
me happy in my room, many nights.
Good things happen like fireworks.
The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd at
the Brooklyn Bridge base surged
to see the waterfall
dive of fire from the span.
The towers made triumphant
Roman gold candles.
This bridge calls no more
ambitious poems.
Its fame is greater than aeroplanes
or steam locomotives,
as great as horses.
The future!
Let’s be as beautiful
in a hundred years as the bridge is now.