((Photo Courtesy of Mikhail Pozin))

Mannahatta, barbaric yawps don’t
sound these days, and I wonder how
much fault there lies in wide lanes,
the greys of cinder on fibered
glass on blacktop — the scale
calculates you somewhere between 40%
and Sachsenhausen ((much chagrin to
Brooklynite investors)); your saving
graces atlassing commands played harder
only by schoolkids demanding that
bragging rights bear worth in that
dark-and-scary parents preach as
“the real world.”

Green-light-GO push off into
dotted lines designated for “safe”
and “lawed” and sharply honed list’ning
skills, but car horns blurred back on
Day Two, so who knows when blows, 50
stitches to the face affront the twenty-
five-approaching-five-year-old only trying
to cash in on dollars for dares or the
American ((holyholyholy)) Dream?

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