city streets

New Facts (a prose poem)

Nick Pipitone2 Comments

History is collective memory, and it’s always subject to correction.

It’s written by winners, whether daughters of despots or democrats. They build bronze statues that inform us of what happened, who’s calling the shots, who owns the space you occupy.

As the city convulses, an ex-mayor’s monument is fractured, beat to the ground. Our historical texts must be rewritten, newspaper editors must be removed, the revolution must be televised and live streamed to your social media feeds, and you must forget what you’ve learned because

there are new facts.

(Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash)

The Faceless Woman (a poem)

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The faceless woman chases me through vacant city streets –

lights on in every home, but no one’s there,

just us, running in dreadful silence

my heart beats so fast it feels as if it’ll burst

from my sunken chest, plop on black concrete +

continue to beat to the rhythm of the pulsing ground,

as a brilliant moon looms above, hangs over us,

shines blinding light on my ghostly skin –

I’m living in sin + if the woman catches me,

I’ll surely suffocate + gurgle black blood

from a wicked mouth –

No! my mouth is gone, covered by slimy skin,

+ I’m gone, in her cold grasp at last,

the world collapses inside of me +

I wake as a newborn in some

distant jungle landscape.

(Photo by Gabriel on Unsplash)

Equality (a poem)

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Who said this was the Land of the Free?

They must’ve been joking, because since them days,

there have been slaves, and even when the chains

broke, the Klan came from dark woods in hoods

and burned crosses – fires crackling in fields,

reflecting in frightened eyes.

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The City Breathes (a poem)

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Why does this city feel like a living thing?

It’s like the people teeming from buildings are all

part of an organism, and the endless concrete breathes

and coughs up dust that suspends in hot air.

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Escaping from the Nightmare (a poem)

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Thank you for helping me escape from the nightmare –

I thought I’d never be free from the cold cell in my mind,

where the warden stood silent outside – where yellow-eyed

rats scurried from dark corners and ate my supper – where

every day was a dark winter’s afternoon, and drifts of cold air

blew through barred windows, and I shivered in rags on the

dirt floor. Thank you: I have my freedom now, and I will march

the city streets, demanding freedom for the others, the ones

also imprisoned by the nightmare.

(Photo by Ashim D’Silva on Unsplash)