Chapter I: South Street

The strangler sleeps outside the prayers mothers sew
winks with Cronkite...winks with Larry Kane
dances in the deep voices of the carbon-copies
smokes up the sidewalk
and sprawls out in the park
where Sean breaks his mother's heart
              Poor Poor Sean!
              Poor Poor Mother!
Poor Underground, crawling with scumbags
and scumbags are like spiders
always eight ways out, spreading their webs
screwing as many dreams and possibilities
the city allows
prayers for Sean come in small doses

Four in the morning, Sean chose the strangler
Next, the poisoner, the lunatic, the smile
Each day, a different song plays
Each night, a different hand is delt
playing like a child in the spoils of the city garbage
any way to lose the hours of a day
               under the stem and spine
                 of Urban Art
                signaling on South St.
A lab of hipsters building an electric mist
lighting flares of tranquility and shaking the streets
where they amend the city castles before a crowded bridge
Love Dances! Love spins! The Power Youth begins to dream
but living under the saltant beat set off by an urge
lies pieces of the cold, the hungry, The Badlands

The indwelling spirit of youth stumbles
cross-legged for a couple of blocks
past Fat Daddy's and spilt art
sidewalks get drunk from spilt drinks
as the air fills the belly with music and laughter
and pocket percussions behind a familiar hymm
                 South Street! South Street!
                  Where all the people meet
All the hip, young, old, middle-aged, vexatious
sweet, silly, blue-eyed, brown-eyed, completely blind
crippled, athletic, authentic, hopeless, hopeful,
happy, cozy, sparkling, cheerful and callous
diseased, suicidal, healthy and proudly peaceful
moving people of the night

Here, dieties are ideas and
ideas are generators for sprouting the
social and architectural pyramids
aside from the Holy Asphault,
grazed upon by automotive animals
Ideas are the shining sun of the city
                  One empowered by
                  a Hercules Fist
                  and ever progressing style
A folksong is through the soul of the nation
but the radio station sounds here
through the granite and reflecting glass
taxis and tolls along the horizon
light waves escalating to the gods' shoulders
an indestructable ultra-machine powered by passionate aspiration

Girls hang on the blocks like ornaments
high heels as loud as the bands
flossie with dangling jewels
wasting the beat until its relapse
vultures diving for the cultures' style and fame
diving to escape
                    home, perhaps
                    or themselves
Whatever monster, it sleeps till dawn
till the sun rises and wakes the demons of day
the night let's us forget all feelings of vanity
the city helps bleed our senses dry
but the night abandons us eventually
Then, we face our jobs, our flaws, ourselves

American Aborigenes lead the cavalry
from front to Seventh St. in counter-culture cars
spitting sparks to scintillate the urban candles
so bright among the airwaves
dazzling many a language
on swift wheels, speeding with sweet music
                     endless muscle, eyes,
                      and heart
                  penetrate hope across the nation
across what is now an endless prayer
all that is felt is the pumping of a youthful voice
Here, tender games serve as ammunition
The dancing fools moving vibrant are as good as family
Here, we tell the children not to be afraid
Here, the children tell us something