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Growth Machine
“a city and, more generally, any locality, is conceived as the areal expression of
the interests of some land-based elite. such an elite is seen to profit through the increasing
intensification of the land…”
-Harvey Molotch
when there is nothing left to grow i go on the roof i cry into my garden
when there is nothing left to grow i go back inside
when there is nothing left to grow i turn the compost, harvest the flies
when there is nothing left to grow i call all my old friends make sure they’re not dead
when there is nothing left to grow i kiss the storefront windows the abandoned chairs the ghosts
when there is nothing left to grow i stage a die-in my body borrows the island
when there is nothing left to grow i’ll be one of many dead things in the city
i think eric adams will make history peeling my skin off the street
when there is nothing left to grow i excavate my grandmothers grave
when there is nothing left to grow i dance using only my legs
when there is nothing left to grow i kiss all my new friends goodbye
i leave a key
the key to a door
the door to a window
the window to a world that nobody knows anymore
6am bus
the smell of cavicide and
my own hot stale breath
tucked into my mask.
the steel ceiling crawls
with drizzle down the window,
casts little rain-shadow
on the other workers.
robert moses predicted it
in his panorama
and did nothing to stop it—
the dead piling up,
the parking lots of cold shelter.
trains grinding on their penny-wheels,
no news received in rattling sirens but
the one—you must be clean but
you cannot get clean.
when i’m home, i take off my clothes
and lie in my bed, dirty
as my tiny roof crumbles to reveal
secret asbestos, illegal sleep.
the rich don’t have what it takes
to get on the bus.
not everyone knows
how to talk to god.
someone has to clean the toilets.
when i’m at work the overhead lights
buzz a sharp and pale sound, the dust
crawls after my shoes, the floor
bleeds after the mop
