where the writers are

          “That is God / A shout
            in the street.”

                     James Joyce

Where angels come from
we have yet to discover –
some say hell
some say los angeles.
on houston street
there is an angel born every
minute while a little grey
man fights with rats for
remains of frozen dinners.
it is hot
it is summer
a band of puerto rican boys shoot
footballs into baskets
a woman spreads in black mass
of torn wool on sidewalk –
she has made this street
her bed.
crimes of passion are sold at newsstands
as sickness is a dream of health
abused by repetition.
I cross against the light
I can taste sweat of construction workers
on tenement walls
the man next to me talks to himself
about death squads and eviction notices.
in close apartments we spawn intestate
buildings – buildings that expand
and contract like confiscated lungs.
on soto street a boy shows me his stripes
one for every life taken while he
stuffs plump strawberries

into his mouth little grey men
tango with gravity
where passion of otis redding
plays I hide
on bleecker streets behind fresh
vegetables thinking
who took the civil
out of civilization    waiting to cross where
angels come from
passion of otis
redding plays.