PGHIMC - Pittsburgh Independent Media Center

i live in a city of iron
by gary aker Thursday, Jul. 29, 2004 at 12:44 AM
crimewriter34@yahoo.com

i live in a city of iron sun overhead but i walk a black road

i live in a city of iron
sun overhead but i walk a black road
hungry ghosts jump out of empty buildings
rejoicing in their endless acquisition
the buildings are always empty
no one lives there
it only seems that way
the animals suffer and die for no reason
their cries late at night along the river bank
tell me at least they understand how they suffer


the iron city made itself from broken glass tears
as a prison
so many of us sentenced ourselves here
just to see if we could escape
no one wants to suffer and die alone
and yet we
travel alone in iron machines on wheels
trapped inside
taking us everywhere
and nowhere
there are doors and windows
yet it’s so difficult
to see out or see in
nearly impossible to get out

when we worship these machines
as if they were the souls
of the dead piled upon
the dead
in the iron city
sometimes my thoughts boil hotter than molten lead
my forehead opens from pain and pressure
ideas of liberation fighting to get out
but the habits of thought and behavior so ingrained
the thoughts always cool into
the same sad molds of being

we penetrate and use the earth
like a prostitute for our pleasure only
and yet we never pay her (any mind)
our debt piles up
debt upon debt
never paid in the iron city
it’s okay to take
whatever you want without asking
and never give anything in return


we call this success
and erect monuments
to these men
made of iron
fashioned from iron tools and machines
the monuments say
he was a kind man
he was a good man
between the lines we read
the king thinks only of himself

angels are born and walk among us
we punish them
crucify them rape them
humiliate them
and when that doesn’t work
we give them our disease
with love and grace
they carry off all of it
like the river
that winds through the iron city
we take everything from that river
and give nothing
but our waste our disease
our filth

there’s so many things i want
and desire for myself and my
self only inside this prison
where i am the jailer
I want a better cell
god damn it
I deserve
to be good to myself

all the lies have now been told
worshiped and followed
to this conclusion
in the iron city
i’m always looking for more
and finding less
i live on the scattered crumbs of humanity
being human
fill myself with the water
of my tears
and live on that like a camel


I think I’ll go out now
and buy a black cup of grief

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