towards an urban poverty

towards an urban poverty.  you may see in yr small towns, some of "our losses", some indications of the death of "our city": it is yr death. this is yrgoldenage, "live it love it". each empty building, vacant lot, is our failure. this recessed city troubles in waking fear, of bottle green violence, of sullen and sallow bodies heaving against each other in brick lined alley holding close "do you love me" she says, "of course i love you" he says. they stare so quietly at each other as if the city can hear their silence, as if the city has become their silence, as if every empty shop building and forgotten golden sign is them and filled with their presence. my golden age is ending, maybe I don't want to leave. just want every street to "become me", so that the streets begin to trace the lines on my hands and body and I am christchurch. maybe we all are.