September 18, 2016

Remember how upset some people got about this street art exhibit?
(a scathing poem raging against
the rich assholes who move
into cool places and destroy
the very reason they wanted
to be there)

The artists, who can
No longer afford
To be your neighbors,

Were painting about you
The whole time; the way
You destroy the world

With your greed,
But try to fit in
With us cool kids.

I am sorry creativity
Left when you chose
To rape her for a profit.

(California's on fire
and, Boston,
hasn't had such a drought,
well, since whenever.)

It is all your fault -
Each renovated brownstone,
Each lot built up
In the name of development.

We will move on to the next
Place - And you will be left
Alone without color, until

You stalk us, searching,
For the thing you gave

Up for profit and
$2,000 shoes.

This is Poem #167 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state. 

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