Like this

The rich are hanging over head
By expensive ties
As I listen to
Silver Apples
Riding the subway
Through rat America,
Rocked quietly
In the head-phoned
Inner-space
Of Springtime,
In the midst
Of odorsome
Up-skirt
New York.

Everyday a
History of
Slow burned
Eternity
Writing itself,
A forever-time
Of lived in
Expanses.

There is nothing like this.