When men **** nature,
Sterile children may be born,
Of concrete and steel.
Angles sharp and tall,
They grow to the sky daily,
On their mother's grave.
Then in false homage,
They build a fake monument,
With locks of mom's hair.
This is Central Park,
A manufactured green space,
For all that was killed.
Malodorous meat,
Offered to the hungry dogs,
Who think it prime beef.
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 3:12 PM UTC
When men **** nature,
Sterile children may be born,
Of concrete and steel.
Angles sharp and tall,
They grow to the sky daily,
On their mother's grave.
Then in false homage,
They build a fake monument,
With locks of mom's hair.
This is Central Park,
A manufactured green space,
For all that was killed.
Malodorous meat,
Offered to the hungry dogs,
Who think it prime beef.
This is another take using linked haikus one of my oldest blank-verse poem, Central Park, written when I was still in my late teens as an undegraduate student. I've always had a love-hate relationship with NYC when I lived there, and more so now when crime, grime, and lawlessness has once again been allowed to thrive there. And I also both love and hate Central Part as a symbol of a false facade of beauty in what is a carefully manufactured park and reservoir where once true nature reigned supreme.
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