APPOLO RUNS A THEATER IN HARLEM

NIKE MAKES RUNNING SHOES

Even the moon looks pockmarked.

Subduing my human, knowing where to look.

I can see it side-lit. a chunk

of old rock.

I can see it fall through orbit.

over barren parking lots

where the oblong, blockhouse offices

reflect a wasted white, or sickly

silver.

Everthing in this city glows or shines,

or burns out. I never knew nature had

so many ugly hues.  It tinges the contours

of light, so each sight reflects the struggle

to keep the moon the moon,

the farms free of city, to keep the city

from stealing light.

Everything we make is ugly and radiant,

as my cigarette pack says: "art is what

you blend."