Tony Daly

Skimming past rows of neon lights,
so bright they freeze, interwoven streaks,
a spiderweb dazzling the edges of consciousness,
a living thing, a mechanical beast,
breathing in tune with the city’s heartbeat,
hiding secrets behind knotted blurs,
past the mech shop where you busted your chops,
fiendish faces peering from shadows,
hiding behind steam valves and scattered parts,
down the loading docks and work-bays in your memories,
out of downtown, through the outer rim,
where doors are boarded and homes stand abandoned,
towards the edges, barely restrained,
and, finally, you blast through, free from the web,
away from the greedy maws, dirty faces,
greasy palms, shrinking from the light,
camouflaged in graffitied facades.