This piece looks at the attack on the working classes of New York.

What you let through that door
what sniffs at the wrong side of the door
the winds of need never break
with a claw in you prostate
and shards of the Dexter house penetrating your words
that we spit onto the pavement 4 stories below.
From our 13 by 9 foot room
we hear the news through the air shafts
with dirty windows that hide the end of the seasons.

Here the patron saints live among the roaches and
between the lines of the great American drama
where even doves fly on hawk's wings.


but never under estimate the lighting of their minds that give rise to their revolutionary hearts
where the buzzing fear that they were the new Indians
where even the shock to the senses will not wiped them clean form 86 street.