This poem came out of the January 4, 2011 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from
aldersprig. It was sponsored out of general funds based on a
recent poll.
Urban Shamans
These are not the shamans of old.
They're hip. They're with it.
It's their job to keep the urban jungle green and gray
and growing.
In New York
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I lost track of him after high school, and only knew he was still there by the occasional spraypainted artwork signed with the familiar tag. I only heard concrete news of him when he died, which made the newspapers. For a long time after that, especially in the bad neighborhoods of the outer boroughs where there was little money for cleanup or renovation, I'd still see occasional pieces of his work. Not anymore. The tag is legendary among New York graffiti artists, and therefore there are still people who scribe it places -- not really, I don't think, trying to claim to be him; more making sure he's remembered. But it's just the tag, not attached to the kind of amazing art that he signed with that name, so I know that Sane himself wasn't there. New York is poorer without him.
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Some people stick around after death, and are capable of making their presence known. Maybe he just wanted to remind folks that he's still keeping an eye on the city, and thought that nabbing a verse in the poem would be a good way to do that.
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