The hollow streets shake like fear and echo
with a granite noise.
Buildings rumble back in anger;
They, lead grey legs
for a cobalt sky.

Somewhere amid the million
inhuman squeals,
a new-born question
screams its way into the world.
Happy Birthday.
Here on those boney rocks by the sea.
Happy Birthday.
You, born blind and infected,
hungry for a gun.

Sometimes in a welter
of seasons, when the sickness
in your soul is full blossom,
you will lay your hand
to the task of manhood,
While all of heaven groans.

Happy Birthday. You, unloved,
uncertain and benumbed.
Happy Birthday, Scion of the City
You will visit your curse upon
the hour when it comes.
For now, hear the menace
in the music. The dance
has just begun. Happy Birthday.

More by Michael
StreetWrites Pacific Northwest Poems
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