Poem: Another

The neighborhood around the old Fulton Street Fish Market before the Ghoul and the Gestapo forced them to relocate.

Another long night wasted,
upon which Whitman wrote,
as an obscure poet/writer,
as another night,
Ginsberg Howled at the Brooklyn Bridge,
from the Manhattan shores,
staring at the open sky above,
breathing the estuarine shores,
as another obscure poet writer,
tired saying tomorrow is but another day,
for madness and dying, toiling, sweating,
another day come and gone,
where madness and death have not arrived,
the cardboard box flaps open and close,
dangling in the breeze,
having left we return,
pissing in the sink,
running water flushes clean,
as low hanging limbs hang in the breeze,
another wonderful day is wasted,
for death did not arrive,
madness was far too distant,
life choked in tight fit blue jeans,
where the lucidity of a clear night,
Manhattan was unclear and foggy,

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