The darkest midnights turn to a metropolitan

cumstain of streetlights and taxi exhaust

as the stars burn like block party lanterns.

Ever pestilent taxis buzz like summer gnats

as you slap them away to swallow a sinner.

Look: Graffitied on the wall-

"i don't know if i believe in god,

but i fear him."

Horns and footsteps croon like the somber

bells of a late-spring Notre Dame,

epitaphs and sermons reverberate through the

tiredly green mountainous hills.

The echoes rise like the harbors pulse

on shell stained seaweeds trails

while the NYPD bash in heads

bask under towering castles plagued with flames

while their angelic children dream miles away

under the same heaven in a meadow in hell.

A stenciled Che Guevra whispers from a STOP sign...

"I see God's little tricks all day, no one else seems to mention them;

so I guess they're either atheist or have no sense of humor."