Flatbush, a new poem

Flatbush

by mike marcellino



Flew into New York
on wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on wings of Babylon.
Perfect trip, eleven minutes late.
Coastal Jersey the same,
belchin’ chemicals and oil -
industrial desolation
in the boot of this deep down.


Flew into New York
on wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on wings of Babylon.
On the heels of Jupiter,
not a bad act to follow
on the right a
Santa Anna’s banner,
lighter green an' red, white
tricolor
blazoned to the fire escape
of a third floor dirty red brick
tenement, a place the West Indians
call Flat Bush,
perfect spot for Jimmy Cliff.
Mariachi music filled the air
all Saturday.

Flew into New York
on wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on wings of Babylon.
Soft good mornings in English,
more likely Patois
darkened skins
standin' outside temples
ol' ladies an' gentlemen
takin’ numbers for dinner
in a church
outside
a
redemption,
after
a
revolution
into
a
resurrection.


Flew into New York
on the wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on the wings of Babylon.
Walkin on graves a stone
17th Century soldiers'
worn blank
in this once 'Vlacke bos'
Dutchland flat plain.


Flew into New York
on the wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on the wings of Babylon.
Jupiter on the right now
not as bright,
on this clear
an’ quiet night.




Wings of Babylon copyright by mike marcellino 2009