Cobblestonse drip wet with
morning water, canals slapping against
crumbling concrete, prostitutes
slowly swaying in musical treeform
enticing, sweating, glistening under
neon, windows that creak against
shouting voices in the
night, bottles smashed or already
broken, rotting wood smell as you
bike past, pool tables, relentless cue balls,
wrought iron fences that keep you
in and out,
small underground bunkers or
sewers or
incredibly small sweatshop secrets that
sell american stamps and nicotine patches and lamps.

Fluorescent buzzing imitation of a universe's
tinnitus, unclothed coat hangers floating
magically in mid air, hung on steel bars of
midnight's face, floating down alleyways
turning like slow chimes under
weight of slumber.
Mannequins resuming fetal positions
after the lights
go out, stores locked, streets
deserted, crying plastic tears down
painted smiles, leaves becoming wind
becoming dust becoming free
falling trash bags before the dawn.
Tourists vomiting or pissing in
drunken backalleys, arrogant, red-faced,
hobos gnawing at slime molds, tin
cans, crushed pigeons (who
puffed up and chased females look-
ing for a good time or a quick
fuck) while the dusk porches
reach up through the achilles tendon
and turn the spectators into statues of
Dutch heroes, or warhorses or
boys who put their fingers
in the
dyke.

You must be like the brick
that sailed through the
police box, thrown by drunken russians,
eyes red with cocaine flaring in
their nostrils, stars clapping and
clamoring in their heads.

You must be like the american hangover,
nailing radioactive railroad spikes
into screaming neurons so polite,
they sent them little telegrams reading
'Neither Ra nor Zeus nor The CIA
will ever overturn mortality.'

You must be like the Swedish girls who,
tattoos bending down their arms,
happily fuck for a clever story, for a taste
of stylish flair, who berate you even
while sucking cock,(smiling they retreat
behind feminist liberation and this
is not a bad thing.)

You must be like the Norwegians
who, drunkstumbling through days
retreats into fantasies they admit will
never be perfect and eat new ideas
and are cursed forever by
thick accents, sad memories, bad friends,
and no jobs and will always live better
than the rest because they only answer
to their pasts and will stand on
one leg by the sea forever.

And you drink yourself homeward
from squat houses and ecstasy
with burning lips and burning fingers
and throw quarters at gypsies who
beg you with half-
hearts and sit in rooms
with half corrupted casualties of
acid who break in through windows
and sleep in your beds,
And resist insanity in places
with leaky faucets,
rusted pipes, busted heaters, creaking doors,
broken tables, balancing on empty bottles
while you make it to the door.
And sit by rivers, watching bridges raise
up like infinite vapor and drink secret
beers and throw lit matches onto half-
sunk boats and watch oil and bones
float on the surface of the canal.
And get pushed by the cops and
sweat through customs
and lust after the Dutch and jerk
off to Bertolt Brecht, spending money on
things you can't keep, spitting on
clean tile floors,
while the bums play music by
the central station,
crying while no one seems
to notice.

Finally,
You retch into the station toilet,
doze on the train, and realize that somewhere
there are huge chasms beneath the sea
and that cities slowly kill you with
a special cancer hidden in recollection,
so you wait for the ghost wolves
of time to take you
back to america's ghost mountains
in the sky, and
driving back, all the street signs say
Survive.