Fulton Street

Eric Conroe

                    having played in the dilemma 
             of my natural alternatives, i hit macon
                    leaves shumbling mid-breeze
             their little barbed spikelets clinging
                    to shirts as proof
                    of one thing or another as
                    swoosh say the nikes
                    fruiting on the wires.
                    mending up herkimer she’s too much
             of a cop to conduit the harmony
             that surrounds her and too much
             of a bureaucrat to kill anyone
                without first completing a form
             trapped in the cubicle
                 of the awkwardly reviled

                                                                                                  move here
                                                                                 share your knowledge
                                                                            of how to touch the earth
                                                                                    live with the bronx
                                                                                   and join the NYPD
                                                 write a poem or two in which someone dies
                                           explicitly. post it to our twitter. ask for feedback
                                                                           religiously you will receive
                                                                                            our swift reply
                                                                                        our confirmation
                                                                                                 ever yours)

                the kid she stares at her phone
             on the corner of franklin and fulton
             policing a corner that has no problem
             policing itself. thought is handed back
             approved, is lost. americano in the glee
                    of real largesse, stupid with debt
                    wonder at another beautiful day in the fist
             as it’s deciding to be a fist



                some day the struggles for power
                will be limited to a lucky few
                        dubious last shimmer of a species
                        but not today: tolerable, fair
                dead. and illegal, crushed
                in the demonstration of what you
                precisely are not accomplishing
                whole chairs of nothing but.
                to approach the street with language
                and waving your hat, verbally wearing
              whomsoever’s putrid gift of speech 



on fulton street. i reach the no more
junk eat healthy halal is the answer 
spot and i praise my drunkard’s swerve
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 have to get to the crown
fried chicken where you are holding
the other end of the dream
of our mutual progress and in that
holding there’s produced gratitude
or insanity for having been held 
by you at all. depends on the night
and if i’ve continued 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 just flaunts itself
with more aplomb than ever now
no one exhorts you to repeat
i am that in fact the armed bureaucrat
will insist that’s not true
which is your cue to kick her ego
crutch into the machine
making you skim skrill in the first place
assuming you aren’t already changing 
your mind about the dream
where you can’t stop saying i’ll be here
to someone who forsook fulton so long ago.