Confused seems to be the new grade.
i've brought it home on my report cards
for years and yet
never allowed it to dampen until now.

It would appear to many that i have
lifted a new blank page from the books
and flailed around senselessly, finally
resorting to casually disembarking the
book on an outward passage through
the plate glass window of the 19th
floor apartment.
It doesn't scream on the way down,
primarily due to the complex fact that
it knew in some way or form that
this day would come eventually.

(Across the street, an old man sat
on a park bench, feeding popcorn
and alka-seltzer to the flocks of
pigeons he attracted.  He watched
the book's swan dive and unapologetically
smiled inside: also so disenchanted that
he too gave himself coal in his
stocking labeled "Dreams.")

i don't smile anymore for them;
makes me sad inside, i guess,
because one day we will be old,
carry our canes arthritically and
look for and reminisce about each,
but who knows if together.

We adulterate ourselves; this era together.
Purposefully, we work
to blur the edges of night-
memories already fragmented.
Perhaps it will cost less if we are
cautiously destructive,
perhaps the tangle of empty sheets
will be less likely to drown us if
we begin to forget before

the end.

the only thing that kept us together was rock n roll
but lou reed died today
and now we are that much more alone

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the Mississippi
down the border
of Mississippi.
The girls with
the purple party beads
and the sax buskers
on the brown streetcars
drink through their
Mardi Gras,
down streetcars named Desire.

Holy Spirits
flow freely
like the slow jams
from the Apollo
during Locke's Renaissance.
The young gangsters
down every block
drop their
fists sticks knives guns
and shake to albee.

Holy Spirits
move through
vast cathedrals
and through
empty pews.
The zealous hearts
and the corrupt voices
all drink
and listen
to the voice
of the serpent.

Light barely drips
through the cracks in the blinds
and the dust floats
back and forth
like snow falling
onto unchristened ground.

I want to yell.
To reach my hands toward
heaven
and scream.

Because we were running.

We rushed our hands
through the grain
and splashed
in the puddles of Spring.
We were light,
glowing and weightless,
as we drifted through freeways
and back-roads.
I followed that river
that flows in you
like a melodic composition.

Now, my hands
reach upward at things not seen.
My feet are motionless,
while your river's current
carries you forward.

The dust settles without a sound.

Mercury is retrograde,
reducing me to idioms:
life is the Cobra Kai dojo,
and we are the Pilates kids.

So *******, messenger boy.
i can still communicate,

if i need to.

I'll wait until dark
to buy myself a bottle
please, night, come quickly