Ninth Entry

Just wrote a long entry that magically disappeared. Oh well what the hell.

Here's my poem:

THE MET LIFE BUILDING

The windows of the Met Life are like the many holes in a harmonica’s side.
Windows wiped clean of the regret in the air and the suicidal gnats.
Wiped by spiderly wipers whose families have never known fear of death.
By families who wipe together like a group of identically clad acrobats.
Families of pigeons called vermin by verminous balding street urchins.
Of urchins out squinting hard at the sun, who knows where they come from.
Urchins, like harmonicas, are full of air and are hard to clean out properly.
Like vacuum bags, even cleaned the urchins are still draped in foreign hairs.
Vacuum hum of the street-sweeping machine in its robotic funeral procession.
Hum of subway cars slinking past like under-the-grating sewage eels.
Of newspapers spinning around in the air only to again flop lifeless.
Newspapers written by ex-husbands with bald spots just starting to begin.
Written by bald men that wear ties and short sleeves and are made of oatmeal.
By the writers of oatmeal boxes with full heads of hair who are still married.
The oatmeal tries to marry itself to your soft palette in a pushy embrace.
Oatmeal that is so tasteless you raise your hands to the sky like a preacher.
That preachers do this indicates the close relationship between hands and god.
Preachers spend most of the day washing their hands and they should know.
Spend your days forgiving sins and you’ll find your fingers caked in mud.
Your money is printed with this sinful finger-grime, by a strange someone.

A strange someone caked in mud should know god.
Like a preacher embracing those who are still married and are made of oatmeal,
just starting to begin to flop lifeless like eels in a funeral procession.
Foreign hairs are hard to clean out properly from verminous street urchins.
Acrobats have never known fear of death or suicidal gnats in a harmonica’s side.