The concrete jungle
is a mixture of successes
and failed dreams,
And we have been sifting
through this place now
for years.

The lights are dazzling
but sometimes cold,
You're a kindred spirit--
warm, beautiful, and bold.

Please don't let
the concrete jungle
gobble up a flicker of you.
Burn through all the tribulations,
Burn bright,
Burn blue.

It used to be
Just the sun, the sea.

And I used to gaze
How -
The sun’s faint rays stretch
And ricochet off the ebbing waves;
How -
The blazing, burning ball of fire
Kindles sparks of white
On the palpitating span of sapphire.

And sometimes,
I remain -
- patiently,
As the first pearls of rain
Trickle down my window
And into the waves,
Lilting, clear,
Like the clinking of champagne beers,
Creating rings of
Endless possibilities.

On hazy days,
The sky
Is a confusing golden gray.
It is a muted sweetness,
A muted softness,
A muted solace.

Now I sojourn by the window,
Silent, still,
Just like the sun, the sea.

So together we await,
Hopelessly as the concrete creeps
                    Higher
            And
Higher
Until we are engulfed forever
In silent protest.

And suddenly
Here I was
In the concrete jungle
Surrounded by prada totting hyenas
And cologne soaked pumas
Immersed in their talk boxes
Making enough noise to wake up a hibernating bear

And there I was
In the midst of the chaos
A scared and lost kitten
Over stimulated by the screeches and smells
And roaring machinery
Yearning to be back in the woods
Back to the silence
Where you can faintly hear the flowers blooming and the bees buzzing

But here I am
In the concrete jungle
Learning to love the prada totting hyenas
And cologne soaked pumas
Learning to be grateful
For the silence that I endure once in a while

The concrete jungle
My home
My new adventure
A kitten who is turning into a lioness.

Tattooed and holding cleavers,
we chop off our limbs
to give as random gifts
and lop off each other’s
to sew onto ourselves

between rotting brown brick towers
on infinitely numbered streets
in dim drywall suites
all along the gray, hazy horizon

hanging rusting lamps
flicker incandescent light and

swing above our pill heads
whose floating eyes
dilate
to watch drops of blood
mix
as the needle and thread
yank us closer to becoming
clones.