Sam Silva



Whitman's Babylon


On the frigid winter lawn

icicles cling

to browning leaves


the man in mass

having grown tired and decadent

in natures ice cold rape of nature


where factories carved the human soul

in the manufacture of precise washers

to keep the diesel engines running

and the bricks laid square

with electric power.


Whitman, you were so honest and hopeful any gay hippie in love

with the arts

and their attendant desire and love

and their joy and gravitas

brought forth by the city's willful passion

and such wisdom born of carnality


...but now what we have

is the wounded ghost

of sex

...dim voices echoing

in a schizophrenic Internet

of art and trash

and virtual hallucination


where money and democracy

became synonymous

in the minds of most


and the commoner's city

became a whore.



Sam Silva © 2017