You gotta shove, gotta claw, gotta bite, gotta spite, gotta rage, gotta numb yourself at night, gotta harm, gotta fight—they don't run the city; it runs them.

You gotta plot, gotta race, gotta buy, gotta trend, gotta chase, gotta curse, gotta denounce any kind of self-chosen pace—making Sweet Lady Dee your god is what'll cut you down.

Sacrificed souls power her skyline's neon—each brilliant hue, a dream that’s been sucked.

We'd no idea she'd run us so ragged—grind us so jagged, over-time, like an Oak Cliff pot hole.

What’s our lives mean when we’re just cells just driving up and down her streams—ones racing back and forth, via her interstate vessels, just to nourish  her heart and neglect our own.

The smog and we are her baked recipe.

The staple faces of sidewalks are ones too swamped to say hello.

Searing asphalt segregates any minute green.

Love her ‘cause she makes you sturdy.  Hate her ‘cause she warped you, in the process.

Rain and snowstorms are the only forces that can stifle vengeful heat waves emitted from gridlocks.  And, it’s only they who can force her to sit down and shut the hell up.

You gotta brag, gotta shag, gotta gripe, gotta moan, gotta shame, gotta blame,  gotta stress, gotta run, gotta dread, gotta run some more, gotta wake, and gotta submit fully to her will.

Pay no attention to the man/lady behind the pale face.
 

From the Soul,

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Published works: https://amzn.to/3gA4Dh3