pulaski skyway: portal to heaven
I have seen them flying across the skyway:
Apollos, Centurions, Rivieras, and Celebrities,
high over New Jersey,
To New Ark, Harrisons, the Oranges, Kearney.
blazing like the red eagle
above the Budweiser factory,
like the multicolored
peace sign of Newark Airport,
to all who will submit
to the Port Authorities of
New York and New Jersey.
Free above the container yards,
and the labyrinthine prosody
of Truck Route One and Nine,
Jerseys least glamorous artery,
a Polish arrow through the heart of Jersey,
a cast iron rainbow
spanning the swamps
of Bayonne and the crazed patchwork
of stock and rail yards, depots and dumps
some wiseguy named Hoffa dubbed the Meadowlands,
some phony euphony like Greenland,
neither meadow nor land.
Not a bridge
but a sky way
worthy of the name
an expatriate hero
of the first rank,
like Lafayette, Von Steuben, and Kosciusko,
our beloved revolutionary hero.
not some two-bit ganster,
who grew up nearby,
like old blue eyes.
He could never fly
me to the moon.
Only idle away his days
on some aptly-named Parkway,
far from blue heaven.
No Bruce Skyway,
Nouveau Jerseys most celebrated vulgarian,
who could never have soared among the steel spans,
but remains somewhere in a swamp in Jersey,
far from the poetry of either skyway or Pulaski,
connecting us to the US continent
across the swamps of Jersey.
When I busted out of Sing Sing
With all that riff raff
I took a boat to Bora Bora
dancing a cha cha with some yoyo of a gogo dancer
who was so so
and her mama
with the tse tse
flies buggin me to go bye bye by and by
with some dodo to pago Pago
a place of untold mystery to me
who left there immediately after a mao mao
uprising in Kansas City, Kansas, City
of steaks, and a can can
dancer named Fifi
who did a no no with her chow chow in Walla Walla
but its all hush hush
here I come,
New York, New York
again and again.