Sam Silva

Whitman's Babylon

On the frigid winter lawn
icicles cling
to browning leaves

the man in mass
having grown tired and decadent
in natures ice cold rape of nature

where factories carved the human soul
in the manufacture of precise washers
to keep the diesel engines running
and the bricks laid square
with electric power.

Whitman, you were so honest and hopeful any gay hippie in love
with the arts
and their attendant desire and love
and their joy and gravitas
brought forth by the city's willful passion
and such wisdom born of carnality

...but now what we have
is the wounded ghost
of sex
...dim voices echoing
in a schizophrenic Internet
of art and trash
and virtual hallucination

where money and democracy
became synonymous
in the minds of most

and the commoner's city
became a whore.

Sam Silva © 2017