12-11-2014, 05:07 PM
Fire Escape
We follow embers and bitter scrap metal,
the fuel of our labors.
We restore God in a lifeless bronze design,
fearless, voiceless ambassador
of Detroit under siege.
Our vision suffers at these doorways in the desert:
artistic history, not ghetto graffiti;
honest monoliths, not hollow hallways;
stale tires, rotten sofas, bodies overgrown.
Our ghosts reign over beaver-lined wrists and red-leathered fists,
alleyway saxophones that mask oil’s marvelous stench,
those soaring ceilings of the true Central Station,
that quiet gateway, sentinel of the Strait, tiger in repose,
echoing “Libertà. Maison. Airgead.”
Stairsteps trace the side of our former Titan,
zigzagging from sky to cement;
four dozen flights of feet pounding steel
above the purgatory of radial roadways;
God-like hands bonded by guilt and grime
frightened at the collective fury of this city in rebirth.
We follow embers and bitter scrap metal,
the fuel of our labors.
We restore God in a lifeless bronze design,
fearless, voiceless ambassador
of Detroit under siege.
Our vision suffers at these doorways in the desert:
artistic history, not ghetto graffiti;
honest monoliths, not hollow hallways;
stale tires, rotten sofas, bodies overgrown.
Our ghosts reign over beaver-lined wrists and red-leathered fists,
alleyway saxophones that mask oil’s marvelous stench,
those soaring ceilings of the true Central Station,
that quiet gateway, sentinel of the Strait, tiger in repose,
echoing “Libertà. Maison. Airgead.”
Stairsteps trace the side of our former Titan,
zigzagging from sky to cement;
four dozen flights of feet pounding steel
above the purgatory of radial roadways;
God-like hands bonded by guilt and grime
frightened at the collective fury of this city in rebirth.
Quote:
Original Version
We follow embers
and bitter scrap metal,
the fuel of our labors.
We restore God
in a lifeless bronze design,
fearless, voiceless ambassador
of Detroit under siege.
Our vision suffers
at these doorways in the desert:
Artistic history, not ghetto graffiti
Honest monoliths, not hollow hallways
Stale tires, rotten sofas, bodies overgrown.
Our ghosts reign
over beaver-lined wrists and red-leathered fists,
alleyway saxophones that mask oil’s marvelous stench
those soaring ceilings of the true Central Station
that quiet gateway, sentinel of the Strait, tiger in repose
echoing “Libertà. Maison. Airgead.”
Stairsteps trace the side of our former titan
zigzagging from sky to cement
four dozen flights of feet pounding steel
above the purgatory of radial roadways
God-like hands bonded by guilt and grime
are frightened at the collective fury
of this city in rebirth.