Monday, February 6, 2012

Eastern Terminus

Eastern Terminus

The eastern terminus of the Lincoln
Highway is Times Square, New York,
New York; the confluence of Broadway,
Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Three
thousand three hundred and eighty nine
miles from San Francisco to the Cross-
roads of the World, cut through the
Rockies, across the broken heartland
and over the big shoulders. There is no
poetry here only clichéd mannequins, neon
buskers and Moriarty’s ghost. Pale travelers,
blown in from Bountiful to Bedford, stand
on line at Bubba Gump and an old stripper
cries in the shadow of some forty odd stories.
Jesus used to ride the crystal ball but now we
seek our salvation in the ticker’s rise and fall;
God is dead after all. This is jazz, blues and
rock n roll, marquee lights and urine stained
sidewalks, the end of a long road, destiny
manifest and an innocent kiss at midnight.

14 comments:

forpuck said...

Nice. Can kind of feel it as spoken word, or a recoil song.

Claudia said...

great...love it steve.. you know i think urine stained sidewalks go well with the blues and an innocent kiss at midnight...and i may walk soon up that 42nd street..smiles

hedgewitch said...

So there's redemption, even in hell? Or just another random flower to burn up along with the weeds in the nuclear wind. Not my kind of place, but you do it, as always, very well.

skyraft said...

It's so vivid. And it's like halfway between prose and poetry (least to me), and that's really cool.

Really enjoyed reading this. Nice work here.

Kellie Elmore said...

ohhh I love your style! I am following! New fan here!!! Welcome to Dverse! See you again soon, Ihope!

my latest:
http://magicinthebackyard.wordpress.com/2012/01/17/we-make-love/

zongrik said...

i like how you used your images to describe times scqure

Brian Miller said...

this is our manifest destiny...god traded for money and heaven help the bodies in our wake...nice grit man...

Laurie Kolp said...

Much enjoyed this... especially:

There is no
poetry here only clichéd mannequins, neon
buskers and Moriarty’s ghost. Pale travelers,
blown in from Bountiful to Bedford, stand
on line at Bubba Gump and an old stripper
cries in the shadow of some forty odd stories

Pat Hatt said...

Real haunting pic, so true too, doesn't matter who many step over to fulfill their greed.

poemblaze said...

This has a beat poet feel to it. Enjoyed the read!

Timoteo said...

Every time I see this photo, I have to enlarge it. What can I say...just a detail oriented guy.

Beachanny said...

A non-lovesong to the City that has its own magnetism, a kind of polar attraction to the world where thoughtful and thoughtless mesh into art, conversation, energy, insight, foolishness, and funk. You always capture a new facet of it in your ongoing paean to one of my three favorite cities - the holy trinity for me..New York (not York), London and Paris. Love reading your work, always!

Eden Baylee said...

Just.love.this.
eden

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