Cannibal Manhattan

Skateboards slap the concrete –

sodden breezes seize the trees as if afraid to let them go;
the city in the middle of July regards itself as dangerous,
completely accurately: apropos

to every quietly conniving steaming sensibility that rules
your New York mind this afternoon:
everything is always on the brink
this far past June

in Cannibal Manhattan
as it lifts its mask
and, slavering, applies itself
to the rapacious task

of eating up all expectations
you will not be eaten up –
of relishing the prospect of innumerable ways
you will be beaten up

for its indifferent fun.
Thick in its gestalt,
it plans
its next assault

as thoughtfully
as if it cared for you –
its hot intentions, goading like a set
of reddened buttocks, bared for you.






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