Eric Conroe

stuy

on fulton street. almost

almost by striding 

i’ve reached the no more

junk eat healthy halal

is the answer awning; and sing

and praise my drunkard’s walk

it’s my honor to be down

on Fulton with my blind

dose of awkward freedom

and pick up the pace of life.

so maybe the life is mine

it’s been a plastic night in

and i can only pass by you

in the crown fried

chicken so many times

before my dream of our mutual

progress bites the dust, man

and in passing there’s produced

gratitude or insanity

for having been passed

by at all. depends on the night.

far from the plastic center 

of the city where the money

asks you not to shout

i listen for other reasons

a task rabbit making hereditary

gestures or at least gorgeous

dumbshows thereof. y’all’ll still see wins

in the deli, still hear numbers shouted and read

the three big rags that favor things 

like ‘slay rap due on bag tot ma’

which is a headline with an MFA behind it

if i’ve ever seen one.

i can squint in ice cream sun

and continue to pound the word

you into a weapon, spinning, bouncing

it like an old screen saver in the cave

of worried sleep where i remain

allowed, i believe several denouncements per minute

pointless though i am. 

who looks at Fulton changes fast - the death of chance for space

to live parades itself with more confidence than ever. no one

reminds you to repeat

‘i’m nothing’ in fact

in fact an armed bureaucrat

will insist that’s not true, which is your cue to kick his ego

crutch into the machine

making you skim skrill in the first place

assuming you aren’t already changing

your mind about the nightmare

where you can’t stop

saying i love you

to someone who forsook

Fulton so long ago.