Pig Town

 

 

The raw smell of city sleet and rain.

The chill wraps the street

in a thin sheet of needles

as chronic taut muscles ricket, lump fetal,

struggle with every tedious move.

 

The mind dilates, swells,

floats through thick,

bitter and muddy sky.

Ice and grease lie stagnant in the harbor,

sparks rise from burning barrels.

 

The rats scurry like monkeys

feverishly scratch and bite infected tracks

on skin shriveled sugar-brown,

drawn close as dying clover,

decaying like thawed hung meat.

 

Meth-elevators rise to the next echelon,

synapses shatter and snap,

angels on the roof shoot soul-sought tangents

hoping to rape the rest of the day,

forget the cold, climb to nowhere.

3 comments

  1. Hi Craig

    Intense and drawn with sharp, pungent details that take the reader into this place of desolation, this corner of despair and rot. Such fine use of language and imagery allow the reader to come into this scene with both a visual and sensory acuity. Lines like the following haunt with depth and stark realism

    The mind dilates, swells,

    floats through thick,

    bitter and muddy sky.

    Ice and grease lie stagnant in the harbor,

    sparks rise from burning barrels.

    This could be anywhere in Today’s neglected and overcrowded city — very much reminds of what is happening in the garbage -laden streets of LA, San Diego and San Franscisco where homeless encampments are on the sidewalks with drug addicts, mentally ill and criminals. Rats run through the debris and illness is spreading. City officials do nothing and the problem is becoming an epidemic. What a terrible tragedy in my state of California and elsewhere in large cities across the U.S.

    Excellent, excellent poem!
    My Best
    Wendy

    Like

  2. Craig,

    Your poem is a photograph of a despondent city. I feel the dejection, the hopelessness.
    I remember going to Camden Yards when the Orioles made their home there. We ate
    popcorn and drank birch beer, and had no idea there was any world but there and the
    farm and Ocean City, or course.. Later the Inner Harbor captured our imaginations.

    We chose not to see anything but the beauty and the joy, and now Md’s crown jewel has
    lost its luster. Your poem leaves me feeling rotten for all the lost yesterdays, but filled with
    hope and respect that the same Md. produced the poet that penned this extraordinary poem.
    Bravo, my friend.

    Like

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