The Next Hit

This is the only non-goofball poem I wrote at camp, and wound up reading at the Poetry Slam of Eternal Length:

 the next hit:

 The world chugs on and the people buy donuts
 The streets are coated with saturated rain
 She is dressed up in a slicker faintly red and slippery
 and the billboards still glitter like a sugar-coated stain
 The river in the morning looks like oil-topped pots
 full of water for pasta in octopus ink
 book binders and paste makers leak fart-smell steam
 in a triangle below canal and the haze swells to fat
 when a business woman's cocaine stubbed stiletto drives its
 way into the hip-hop dreary dreams of Chealsea schoolkids in Northface
feather coats.
 Dust motes stick.
 Stamps to lick
 Living in an ancient smelling apartment and
 loving the sunshine trickling in as someone's sister flushes the toilet
upstairs
 and flashbulbs fly off downtown. 
 vanilla nuts in heaping trays sold like drugs and on subways
 two young girls go through the turnstiles with a six pack of Calypso
Breeze. 
 Cell phones sneeze out stupid songs - lullabyes for tamogotchis
 and someone's jeans are soaked through to the skin
 and under my tongue there's techno pulsing
 as I inhale the smoke
 your face
 and my city in.

mad love, Maggie Frrannnkfurt Levvvinnnn.