Aggressive clowns stalk the sidewalks
dressed like they’re fifteen when they’re fifty:
methadone zombies and smoked-out ghosts.
From foul urban ghettos’ trash-strewn streets,
from vicious twerking braided beats,
I love to get away and climb God’s sylvan hills;
see no litter, and hear
no thugs’ pulsing sound systems, smell no drugs,
and drink of Mother Nature’s thrills.
Behold no trace of urban dysfunction
here in the glorious green unction
of generous Nature,
where educated citizens enjoy the Creation
far from the vile gangsta nation.
Call me elitist, call me names;
but wind sighing through the summer trees
brings me to my knees;
your ugly non-culture
is only good for drama revenue:
Maintaining bureaucracies,
family court payouts,
dogging absent fathers,
. . . nothing new
forced me to free verse this.
I leave you, soul-dead city, for the hills
organic Nature’s subtle rills
What city-life hates:
natural, tranquil, reflective . . .
Anathema to Urban.
