While we're on the subject, here's a section of my poem "Gin Angel" that deals with the hard city and the soft city. In this case both "cities" have become in a certain way sinister, but for different reasons. (I won't post the entire poem, because only the particular section is relevant to this discussion).

From GIN ANGEL

This one for the soft city, its boneless muck
& poison spit. Restaurants leer & cobbles
buck; autopsy of footprints, chalk lines indicate
residual damages. Kick drum,
kick drum, kick drum on the headset.
Tired of G3s and yoga books, House Blends
& the village idiots.
It's a mascaraed face at best, these days
it all sags away with the rain.

This one for the hard city, the wind-snore
through bare girders, bleep of the traffic-
dance, prosthetic limbs propped up on the Liberty
Tree: dollar-scum, bulb winks, panel
skywards. Music mid-chorus, a sheer thing droops,
hides its eyes from the eyes, somebody
jiggles & coughs & someone's
scratched on my back, "It can't be wrong
if it helps my heart to die." Cease to speak.

This one for my man of twists & turns,
Henry & Hermes Trismegistos, sunlight
in the ward & on a book, handprinted, India
ink, penscratch on finger-webs. The swell
of undoing vibrates down the mainline.
Did I tell her the trains were singing?
My mistake--it's just the brakes--they're
going. In a satchel the mobile bleats.
Please save my mail in a jar.