City behold, I lock grip.
The luminescence of my alien juice
lights up the alleyways through long organ tubes.
I’m also a capital signal caller.
And I flag you to neon bar, neon register,
neon-lit tip canister, neon restaurant manager.
What’s my meaning?
What’s your interpretation?
I’m just a colorful diversion,
silent magnet for the masses,
and you even outfit me on glasses
that cover eyes that code.
I’m the futuristic dress mode.
Thursday evening tries,
gas-lit by electrodes, electrified.
Your neon acts intensify.
In this market place, I multiply.