Skin of the Earth, fingerprint ridges of America,
Winslow towards Gallup, 
Driving from the West, Manifest Destiny. 

Train veins, their double-decker Snowpiercer’s, 
Light cucking cliffs and desert land thirsting, 

While sandstone breasts and tent rock popsicles 
as the Sun teases to set 
And horizons melt while God begins to knead,
Hands enmeshed 
Blood pumping and chugging, downwards, upwards, East and West,
Birds cue their soar and circuses of cirrus lay you down to rest. 

Cities change 
And stranger’s faces stay the same

I look for you in all of them and I’m hoping you get doored, 
That way I can rush to you 

And hold you too 
The way city boys do (you’ve never ventured out of Chelsea) holding back the tears you’ve bottled up in me, I’ll patch your scars with the palm of my pain and

you’ll see my eyes for what they are, 
hoping you get doored so I can rush to you, 

there’s a bike shop down on Grand.

I have built the corners that scream at me, 
and suddenly I’ve got myself a room. 
At night, there’s a growing shadow,
I’ve seen it out my window when I was looking out on Mars.

It’s a figure of a creature
Made of gold but made of clay 
Limbs like rolled-out play-doh, through the palms, the squiggly worms, 
Lanky limbs with big hands and big feet and a neck 
cracked through and through that carries a massively oversized egghead skull with no features but it’s hang. 

No ears and no mouth, 
Piercings. Indents. Dimples, grins. 
A void 
Instead of a soul
And yet somehow and
Every time there was just something about it where 
You could still 
That it was there
For you
Beyond hearing you, smelling you, seeing something you’ve did, done, are, 
After that, or maybe before


Through it’s glaze refracted shadow upon the eyes, it’s just awful

Even on the brightest of nights,

As if the world surrounding it succumbed to its event horizon, washed away upon its touch, for he was not of this world but from the world where
Coming over here, to me at night
Like this, all the fucking time as though it were a gloved figure,
But as a being. Sentient. Mew-Two level shit. And,
It needed this 

It needs this cloak

Whenever he wanted to come inside to the room with all the corners, 
He just
Sifts through the walls and into your home, as though it bled through the pores of concrete and what was once your view is now your guest,
In this cloak, this
Nebulous, black gown of the static that comes after one’s settled down and is laying down in bed, face up, the lights are off and you’re eyes are adjusting but then once they have you sort of like,  Accept the darkness, or some shit and like
There’s that static – that comes after the blackness? And the more you let it go the more it festers but the more you try to pin it down and night-focus on it it just dissolves back into the regular hue of night this thing doesn’t wanna ride or die in. 

So, because it’s trying to avoid the obvious of startling me so overtly,
It settles in the corners. Cause it knows,  Corners are always the darkest bits of the room, whatever light goes in, 
It ain’t coming out. 
And so it’s able to use it’s static drapery in those corners because between the static and the light going in and never coming out, 
It blends in – so that corner – within a second or four’s consideration – is only ever gonna look like that corner of night

Same token
You could beat the system in a way, and really the way you beat it is also unfortunately the way you first went about doing things the first time you ever knew he was actually there, in the shadows, 
In the periphery is where you see the most 
And this maneuver tricks the creature, but ultimately, renders one exactly where it wants you to be. 

Directly under it. 

Through the periphery is how you see it move. Like a headlight through the blinds when a car makes a turn down the road, it flows through its effusing shroud of clouding, clumping tulle, knowing translucent, especially at Four 

Twenty-seven A
It makes no sound, for it cannot hear. 
Not that it intends on avoiding the things on my dresser, my lamp, my passport, the artichoke ceramic 
Or that accidentally does so on occasion
You know, a little ‘Oops!’ 
A little ghost oops,
It flows through it all, gloved finger

From one corner 
To the next! 

It looks like the fucking grinch from the side of your eye, hopping chimney to chimney,
Santa’s bag of tulle

And you keep shifting with your head in the pillow, you know, now that’s you’re on to the motherfucking piece of shit, 

As it goes
One corner, to the other corner 

Grabs a sip of water, then another corner 
Until finally, 
It’s only at the bottom periphery, where you imagine the lower bit of your eyeball can see, 

And that’s because he’s now at the foot of your bed. 

And usually that’s as far as he goes. 

Night after night
He lingers there,
Maybe taking notes, snap-chatting Tik Toks like a goon
But he’s looking at you. 
And it’s then at that moment and every moment like it when you’ve figured to think that by turning to the side of your pillow or bringing up the duvet to your scalp you would suddenly make him go away. And the sensation he brought with him,
The drenched chill of vodka dripping down the underbelly of your spine, the cognizant mind and a pumping, warm heart at once existing within your frozen corpse. And that’s how you freeze in place until morning. 

But then there are the other times when he comes closer. 

He’s got Gumby limbs, you see, he’s able to stretch out from where he’s standing, He’s capable of looming – No!
is the wrong word. 
It’s as if, from its ankles, where ankles ought to be, it’s like
There’s this never-ending bit of leg coming out, rolled tightly within its feet or something under his sole, a fucking
Soft serve ice cream machine
You know, 
With the lever
But in reverse. 
And fully retractable, without any spill,
Same thing with its arms, but not it’s neck
It’s already got that big fucking head on it
And when he’s going bout it this way, you know
Starts hunching over 
Quasimodo but on intermittent fasting 
Not even reaching out for you
You’re not his snack
If he had pockets, that’s where he hands would be the way he leans in on you, keeping his arms curved the exact same way as his back, almost as though he were made out of paper,
And clay and gold
But mostly of construction paper with the way it all bends the same way at once while still stretching over you

You’re doing the best you can, right
You’re holding out and your spine is drunk as hell 
But you can feel air from his lurching in just
Pressing tighter on your lungs, like you’re the one side of a harpsichord unsung at the moment 
The closer he gets at you the more he grows out of the periphery but because you’ve looking at it this long you may as well just find some focus on it, the two of you are there and the bar is looking a little empty. 
Maybe it’s the surrender or the curiosity (there’s something about the two of them) but the head follows after the eyes. You realize your toes have pulled at your sheets and knotted them and kicked them to the floor and you realize you were straining your neck to begin with and now your head’s on the pillow the way it ought to be and you realize that this is it that we’re going in and you look up once last time for closure and he’s looking at you just the way he wanted to, you under him 

And the thought of screaming comes to mind
And you run with that for a while
Until you realize after the fifth or sixth time you can’t produce a noise. 

Nothing for you to hear. Hours made endless wailing for a whimper. It kills you a little bit, the futility. After a while you pick up on what’s going on and you’re just testing to make sure it’s actually true, that this is what’s happening, that this is what has happened, that this is what will happen.  Sometimes. The sometimes that last an eternity. 

And it wasn’t until I began picking up on that bit – 
It’s true frequency, I mean, the eternity that only lasted sometimes, the
Conjugal visitations
At the mid-top of 20 Seventeen

Just exactly what it was. 
Who he was, after all the shifts in belief

You’re too afraid of people doing to you what you’re unwilling to do to them

You’re too afraid the things you’ve done to people you suspect no one has done to other people

You are a raging narcissist

Daddy’s in you

It was a matter of the blood. 
The news of the recent at the time that had happened within my blood. 
The stranger looming over me not there to antagonize or terrify but rather welcome me into the clan of the undead. 
After the years in the nights of the screams and the face without a face that’s what all of it deduced itself towards. 
The inescapable neighborhood welcoming committee, 
Pills instead of pies, the shakes instead of hugs 
Or shakes, 
This ain’t Miami anymore. 
I cut the screams and settle in, looking up as I spell its name, 
There are almost jokes shared and stories told as he reaches with his hands the first time I’ve seen him do it and grabs my blankets off the floor and tucks me in, 
His head’s now shaping out like mine, I remind him when I was young and would run and my head would pull behind the rest of my body and now he dances for me like in Body Double and makes some tricks of his drapery and with time increased and settled 
Finally one day left me as I said goodbye and he pointed to my window
Promising the comfort of company the next time I stepped out onto Mars. 
The growing shadows receded, 
No telling what’s become of my room
As its corners crumble like Pompeii 
And all there was
was Space again. 

It’s snowing on Halloween.
I’m a cowboy and you’re a Zombie Mister Rogers. 
I nearly broke my horse-on-a-stick at some point, on your roof. Manhattan in the distance.   

I’d slipped on some ice, I think. I think I’d called him Sugarlips, the horse I mean,
And at some point you’d asked if I knew any of Andreas Gursky’s work,   
That part I always knew.   

Sometime later nearer towards December we’re paper-bagging Sapporo’s and you’re teaching me the meaning of ‘schmear,’ according to what’s-her-name at Bagelsmith
(It’s more than just a serving on the bagel, it’s the heaping of the cream, a fucking pint, that’s the point) 
As you say we’re here and crush your camel blue into the dark,

Cherry lights your eyes,   

I take it in and at once I know I’ve known it all immediately, me
But with you
At Grand Ferry Park.   

We’d sit at our bench at the time
And all of the time,
Before the sugar factory became a place for the yupsters to walk their children and pencil-dick towers shafted into the Autumn sky and redefined what we’d know from eight years ago,
Drunk love in those moments, 
Hands held but together always somber, as though between our fingers, within the sweat atop the webbing, the preservation of what we knew would soon become extinct,
Come September at JFK,
Where we’d hug and mourn the last giraffe of Brooklyn.   

It’s been a year since I’ve been back, 
I’m back again but with an N95 shipped to my place in Hollywood from my friend out in Albuquerque.     

At first when I’d arrived, I sat on the rocks that overlooked the river,
And the bridge, by our spot in its exactness, 
The thunder of the subway trains trudging towards Manhattan. 
The Hasids with their payot sidelocks lapping in the wind, lapsing waves like curtains over the East River (while their wives with Rebooks walk the bike lane up above) 
Shoo themselves away 
For an all-black wedding parading out of Crown Heights (or so they thought) setting up between the bench that was always ours (or so I thought)
And the other one we never needed. 

Matrimony for them,
But with a view of the Baruch Houses that at night transformed into a heaven made of halogen, laid out just for us along the horizon.    

It was brief,  
A seven minute affair, they kissed and all clapped as ferries kept on schedule, and soyboy queer boys devoid of attention raise their voices as they talk into their phones, 
Demanding photos of spreadsheets for the influencers they track all day on Sundays, 
A word for them comes into mind, I won’t say it but it’s fucking
Fathomable. You know which word I mean.   

The wedding leaves with no remaining signs of the Hasids.   

The other seat over there has a mother now,
Watching over her Albanian granddaughter, a Maltese in some Chinatown Gucci in September on the rocks, barking at barnacle. 
Under the trees behind me, 
Muslims salat al-‘asr-ing by the smoke stacks from yesteryear towards tomorrow’s Sun, 
Soyboy unhappy with his life has gone as well, god-willing on his end he’s sniffing out his second frozen marg, née rosé, 
Hopefully another stranger looks his way when he’s on his phone, He can raise his voice again and make it count, you know (feel good).  

The wedding party of 20 wanders onto Kent.   

Sea planes landing, I wish they’d field goal through the ConEd towers on 14th (in Manhattan), 
And with the parties gone, I take my chance and take our seat, I’m looking out and, God, 
How skylines change and maybe this one isn’t mine anymore.    

It’s my first Sunday back in over a year and
Walking past 224, Metropolitan, 
And recollecting how all it took was just one glance and one smile to nod and carry on, 
I think about the things people say about time, I think they may be true.   

Weddings where my ass dreamed of always being, 
The potentiality of this bench just being mine forever now and onward makes no sense to me, but
I’ll always say I’m very good at sharing
Just don’t get me started on beaches, those are mine for good.   As I type the water breaks on littered rock, a sailboat wanders by,
I heard a train derailed today, an A, it caused delays. 
It’s the first Sunday that I’m back and I remember you without the pining or the pain, I guess the good work’s done or at least the bad times over, 
Putting you to rest now knowing for once and for always,
To cherish you but once a year like this counts for all the years before. 
Missing you was my immortality, 
But like skylines all things fade,
Usually for something larger that crumbles just the same.

I want us at a forever Sunset, 
On a wooden deck overlooking the lake we forget was a reservoir
With a slipping slide that would lead us straight into the water.
There are sofas everywhere, pointed in the direction of the slide, towards the lake, and tables too, 
With cups of unmeltable ice, made of unshatterable glass. 

The sea is somewhere always near. Your nose can taste it.   

The sky’s light’s like you’re in a grapefruit
ruby red towards the very center of it all, 
clouds of pulp trace the flight-paths towards the places never been. 
There’s indigo of course, brimming in place behind the Angeles mountains, beyond the Oz of Glendale. 
They’re unsure whether or not they should be turning on or off their office lights and radio tower signals because of the perpetual Sunset you know, so it’s like
Every seventeen seconds or something there’s always a set of lights turning off and another set of them turning them on, 
The emerald city twinkles.

Throw in the sounds of airplanes while you’re at it.
And the wind of the exhaust from down under when you’re walking the Williamsburg bridge towards Lucky Dog. 
In fact, 
At all times, like at 20
Percent, 15 percent even

People in the distance with their dogs, walking them, walking at least, a
Couple minutes apart from one another.
Let the cycle last a month, 
then stick with them and let them grow and age and once all the dogs are dead you know fuck the owners and start with a new set of frenchies and then run the cycle again. 
On what used to be Sundays, we’ll play Willy Chirino, whenever to whenever, because the family’s coming over with a bevy of shit from Islas Canarias (the one on SW 26th) and we’ll dance and drink black label and shoot the shit while tia talks about the time Alberto did the thing for Franco at his Valle de los Caídos,

There will be trumpets to play and pianos to touch, abuela’s got La Comparsa down like she was seventeen, and dad’s playing the Strad like we used to. 

And then they’ll go home and they’ve left us all of the leftovers and now we’ve got like a hundred croqueticas de hamon until the next time they get here and we’ll do our fucking all-boy workouts while we sleep before we wake and we’re greeted with the bounty of the lay so who gives a shit how many we eat

We’re tending to the self-watered herb garden, 
We’re pouring Havana Club into buckets of mint because that’s how much our self-replenishing herb garden presents us with every morning,
Whenever it is we decide when morning will be at our Forever Sunset. 

Not that we’re only drinking on our deck, in fact we’ve taken a liking to water and our infinite supply of Crystal Ice, the drinks of orange chemical you used to buy for four for seven at Gelson’s.

But there’s also a self-scrubbing grill (I know what you’re thinking, don’t worry you’ll chop wood for fun like they do in the movies) and,

There’s also a self-scrubbing grill eleven feet long and beneath that
A huge fridge of (you guessed it) self-stocking food items, 
Items mostly including those square slabs of ground beef you buy at 365 when you’re looking to impress with the plastic wrapper,
Anna’s corn dip 
and his chicken salad 
those beers we like that taste like mango
And cold macaroni maybe 
Or pizzas we could slap on the grill if we ever learned how,
Same thing with chicken wings, really, but 

That’s okay!
When the friends come over in between the time the parents come over and, you know,  separately, 
They’ll know how to grill the things we still can’t admit we don’t know how to work with. 


These friends come at different levels. 
Different speeds. 
Different groups, 
usually the ones we’d always wished would work,

But also sometimes they were entire tribes, incapable of breaking a goddamn thing, not even spilling a drink and yet more miraculously (somehow), 

We’re already, always ready for them. It sweeps something within us, this Sunset, fingers for its rays, prying us open before entering to indoctor, 
Until for once and suddenly always (or instantaneously forever) we suddenly believed everything would always be okay and we were finally able to like who we lived to be, 
Even at the moment, 
Especially going forward. 

When they’ve gone, 
We’ll read. We’ll also write. We’ll
Try recipes and eat ramen over a 97-hour session of roller coaster tycoon 2 on the biggest, best graphics computer screen 
And we’ll use the French press while the Mr. Coffee’s coughing up his brew and we’ll 
Just for fun, 
Without the need of a wank, a nap,

Until waking up to having been already edged by our dreams. 

We’ve got the dog with us. 
He leaves the room when it’s time to nap. 

And you know, there’s also the TV in the living room,
That you can access through the wooden deck. 

I suppose the wooden deck is part of a larger home, okay, we’re at a home with the lake and all that shit but we prefer the deck but also, yeah, you know
There’s a TV in the living room. And a fully stocked kitchen. And the bedroom, with the master bath and the swing, throw in a solarium, sure. 

But be sure when I tell you this: 

is, for certain,



Always been there, even before I started talking to you about our deck and our slide and our lake of a cement hole. 
It’s the bit of the sky that is beneath our feet. 

Should it be accessed through the garden, the garden accessed through the wooden deck then round the back, past the hot tub and tetherball court, 
You know, 
Through the house, too, 
Whichever way you see it fit and work for you, 
It’s where he’s at and it’s always there man always ready for you when you’re ready for it cause I dunno if that part of us will ever change.  

But you can go in, baby. 

Cause that’s where he’s waiting for you. 


Through the door, you know
Either of em, 

You’ll find Kokomo. 

You’re in the Keys. Bahia Honda. We’ve been there a couple times.
Bottom of the country, top of the Caribbean. The sand is white, Parrotfish kiss your toes If only parrotfish got so close (but here they do) and 

And it’s all a little different. There’s the sea and the palms and the sugar sand and it’s after midnight but midnight’s got this hue of purple to it now and on the far horizon you’ve got the teal neon of the end of Days

The stars finally scorch the skies as though every one of them were Mars and its hue marching towards our melancholy, the breeze is gentle and the mosquitos have gone extinct and there’s a fridge of tacos and another fridge of tacos and lechon and his warm stew,
And all of it’s there for you should you come and sit with him on his couch, 
A couch 
Impenetrable to the polyp dust, should the wind ever dare blow in its direction. 

All of his books are there. His magazines, his blu-ray player, his
Chinos, and

He’s wearing them too,

And he hears you coming and he’s still reading and not to ignore you but because he just he wants to finish his intake before he gives you his attention and when he’s ready to he smacks his book shut and down and his chin raises with his brows and then with his eyes that say ‘hey I love you,’ it suddenly

It suddenly becomes up to you 
unfortunately and forever
To decide if you’re gonna sit there and eat tacos with him and drink the rum you’ve buried out of the sand and laugh as the neon of the horizon turns the night sky into a flash fire nuclear Costco while you hold each other’s wrists and feet and the heat chars the heart of vision and the belly of the soul and together your bones burn before your guys’s wedding bands and 
You’re back at the deck. And he’s still reading in his room. 


You decide to lead him out into the Sun. Knowing you can’t keep him there forever. He’s got his own wooden deck, his own room for you, or maybe not, beyond the garden path or through the woods of the laundry room, I think he’s got us sitting on a chair by a pool. 

And it’s nothing personal, it’s just, 

Circumstances over there are always the same. Every dog has its own patio it crawls under when it’s time to go

And unless he’s really into that crossword and is gonna need a couple of a minutes before the world explodes so that he could be the everything you’ve wanted out of Heaven, 

He’ll come with you right away. 

And his shirt is crisp. His skin is how you knew it to be. 
He’s kept the beard. But only because he wanted to for you. 
He lets you smell the back-top of his head, 
Years recounted as you comb your fingers through his hair. 
There’s a sticker on the bottom of his shoe. 
A water stain just under his left collar. 
You ask him if he’s cold. 
He says he wouldn’t mind being a little warmer. 
And so you wrap each other in blankets for Sunset. 
And you’re sitting together and there’s a playlist going on that needs no curation and the both of you know to look at the same things at the same times, 
And you hear the doggies with their walkers and you’re guessing which of them’s gonna croak next. 
He asks for the moon and you bring it out for him.
You’ll ask him if he wants some stars and together you’ll map out the sky with them. 
You’ll have your meals together. 
Day-long naps and wake up in time for lunch. 
You’ll take out the neck ties for ties for after dinner and after that
There’s usually dessert,
Usually sorbet. 
Eyes closed and chins on each other’s shoulders you’ll be dancing in Paris. 
Eyes open and with thrusts on cold pillows and through the windows it’s raining now in New York
Until refractory hits and coyotes dance for us in Joshua Tree. 
And there’s movies we’ve never seen. 
There are songs we’ve never heard,
Drives from the garage never mapped, somehow always known, bridges built as long as our hands can hold. 
Until it’s time to go. Until the next time at least. 
You guys will have the ceremonial goodbye, like the embrace before he’d walked down Cheremoya. 
You guys’ll listen to and rewatch the favorites, 
On a cycle,
Depending on the light of a very dependable window out in Glendale that flickers on or off every thirty-seven years give or take.

The both of you have watched The Brood three hundred and seventeen times, today you mark another tally. 
The two of you have an American Spirit that drags as long as an entire pack. 
There’s the final bites of Petit Trois,  Big Mec’s like listerine our wiped mouths clean and ready for air
With one final embrace and locked-lipped kiss at once you both drown.  
Lungs filling with the water of every day playing through every day that had come before, as
Houdini’s chains wrap your legs together and suddenly hurl you down the slipping slide, 
There’s the slope but it’s in freefall, 
The both of you in the home of the car of the bed of each other’s arms of each other’s heads on each other’s torso’s, 
before the both of you fly high into the air, eyelids closed but the both of you clearly seen through the light of Sun that pierces through the frantic flesh, 
and break the surface of the reservoir,
Immediately, at once, falling deeper and deeper to the bottom of the sea, 
The last of our bubbles the same as stars we drew
The water in our lungs now replenishing with oxygen, the womb of the couple 
Hitting the lakebed with your feet 
You’re breathing like you used to, the both of you are and
The shirts on your both look like they’ve just come out of the dry cleaner’s
And there’s the deafness of the deep and as if for the very first time the both of you are able to speak. 

Hours down below and looking at one another he’ll finally ask, ‘See you later then?’ 
You’ll break if you hold his hand any longer. 
And so you let him go and tell him that ‘I’ll see you always’

Something the two of you had finally ended doubting, for after a millennia it was something said that had always proven true. 

There’s a man who
Thinks he’s a boy
There out on
His patio
At night
It’s almost Three
I had to pee.  

He’s always there
There on that
Chair of his 
His Feet’s up on another
They’re identical
Laptop on his 
Watching something
Something bright
And light
With light 
The light of a tunnel
Tunneled black mirror
I think he has a dog
Smoke Always
He’s always smoking
Eyes tired but
From watching
Something over &
Until he needs
Another breath of muddled numbness
This month it’s whiskey
Last month was whiskey, too.
Sometimes up until
I think he drowns to stay alive and
Rid the hurt
To hurt again
Where did it
First begin
The kick to the train
Down the 
Tracks sloping
Down something steep
A mountain upside Down,
Scratch of horizon too steep to climb
You’d fly instead
But from your feet
Wings On his feet.
Another glass with Roommate’s ice
He coughs
Scraped Grind
Of his chair
He should be writing
Should be sleeping
Should be
Working but there’s
Nothing’s Working
And there’s never tears
But pours
And porn and poppers, too
He’s never fixed his blinds
There’s a glow
But on a carcass.  

Boy the things 
I’ve watched him jerk it too
Re-watch central over there
The struggled
Pain that gets him off, or going
Is it what he wants or 
How he feels the
Of the primal urge to lose control 
And (or) want it stripped by rope and bourbon
He only drinks until he cums
No, I’ve never heard him cry

Stop asking.

But how he sobs in his sternum,

Playing a Lead in his
Movie version of this
movie land,
Foothills of Hollywood
Looking for an ending but liking all of the attention
Looking like
He’s blaming others
But still stiff to think of blaming 

the edgelord.  

By his door
The one I can 
See it
Looks like he’s getting out
Or going somewhere else.

Another patio
Maybe somewhere 
Where he needs or can knead
Maybe what 

Somewhere new to live 
In and with himself
Maybe The light of Sun
Or presence 
Of men 
He will see,
Want him as something other than an ottoman,
Imprisoned trophy bitch to men who live as boys.  

Does he plan on changing or does 
He already feel it’s too late for that
If only one thing then
The change of believing that. 

Night clouds of thunder their 
Lightening forever lit and stalled and netted, 
Window frames of ember-ed gold –
Champagne cherries, lit cigarettes 
Tangled down by the smoking swaying 
Canopies of the hills, 
Looking down 
Towering over 
While us down here in the grid,
The shining rows of halogen and brake lights, neon too 
Somewhere in there that’s where the Pikey used to be – 
Down further
Nordstrom memorializes yesteryear Beverly Park with its Kiddie Land and laughs and screams,
Soon imported like just the other day 
Towards down the bend just past the beanery, 
Where pastels shine like moons
And swings are reserved for Mickey’s.
Stolichnaya’s closed for the night but the flour’s set to pour in and float with plumes within a couple hours, 
Before the birds squeal over territory,
Though after mic drops echoing of cheering crowds finally fade
And Jacarandas still sway with greeting for Spring,
Lilac into mauve into indigo at night, 
No matter the light up until dawn. 

I can’t recall Vaseline Alley
In fact I’ve never known it, 
But the sensation sure, 
Kate waltzing through her Sensual World,
Her Machavellian kneels, afterward 
Gargling over at Gold Coast Listerine, fresh-minted moscow mules still tasting of warm water and salt but with ice. 
Smoke breaks with e-pens, the new cruise, 
Pay no regard the new what’s your number, bumped shoulders the ASL,
Ever been to Basix, the new Have we done this before. 
Pining eyes leaned against the dumpster,
Or so I was told,
Beyond the backroom at the Circus
the jostled down service entrance with broken frames, the broken promise one would 
hope to break with a score,
in a time before it became nothing but for pissing in secret and the piece 
of the night’s 270 feet away, so says on the phone, 
but the line at the Abbey’s gone on way too long to hone in on one’s instant connection. 
The scraping of boots and Levi’s against asphalt gone – 
Along the way said goodbye to the initial heave and thrust against brick walls and 
signs that read No Loitering, 
Surrendered for deafening noise
and crinkling bottles of water,
No need hearing what one’s saying, 
so long as glazed eyes read and gauge the lips,
A pondering wallow for the alleys of men whose men took the knee 
before the G, and in knowing dismissal of the 
fluid death decades later would soon resign without a halt
fortified through kneading and needing,
the nurseries turned nightclubs where most now so secure would
forgo the bated pining for tough and being 
for the grasp of the excessive, the night forgotten until 
recounting the evening with 1 PM morning’s chilaquiles.