i'm wandering nyack in search of
poems. i like it when the full moon
and the lights on the tappan zee bridge  
reflect off the hudson.

nights like that, the tides sing me something
inescapable, and my legs take me down the
steep part of main street, east of broadway,
and i stand on the undulating dock and
let the waves pass through me as i scream
song lyrics or memorized poems until
the water calms me. saltwater has a way
of reminding me of deep secret histories.
my mitochondria all remember
being born somewhere like this.

not tonight, though.

it's cloudy and the sky is whispering
but he spits when he talks and
i thought spring was out tonight
but she went home early because she forgot her wallet

all i can find is
drunk strangers and
beer i don't like

few things reduce you
like so many unfamiliar faces
in a familiar place

inspiration tiptoes
out my pores in fine droplets,
evaporates; leaves behind a salt-crust of
voiceless hollow, so
i go for a walk
letting the almost-rain try to rinse it
from my bare forearms, calves, cheeks

i don't find any poems tonight,
only a feeling of

when i cordoned you off
with Gorilla Tape and lilac vine
once i was done attaching encrypted files
of pearls upon that sultry salt of your inner-thighs
once i’d borrowed bonds
off my favorite banker’s portfolio
so i could waste myself in their earned interest
ratios
of blood bourne by centuries of
hapless gathering oppression
so i could use them in mosaics of swollen sand
that i could lay
like sea-glass shards under your
ebbing feet as useless parchments
i swallowed you in all your swollen spasms of fragile oblivion
until that bottom of this tongue lept amidst surfacing juices
obliterating and obligating all that ever decayed amidst obelisks
your whispers
(hatched from your
breathy endorphins)
shook me into
mine own
desperate shudders
astride our gathering humidity
and i gathered in
your needle-nosed
plier
eyes
-rust encrusted grey
incisors-
wrought from melted andirons
mixed with slug
trodden
soils
of hinterlands i was
never
to penetrate
as if i ever slammed
you
with yore spinning flails
into night’s emerging chasm
of charcoal sprinkled
with inner-orange peels
and their attempts toward
all that is illuminating, wistful, brief, and
precious—

i am your son, i am birthed from your sal i vations. i am twisting, still, amidst these rudiments of brine...

Night is an old blanket
asleep on my pillow.
Night is the mist on the river
covering the willows.
Night is the moon turning blue
brushing her hair.
Night is a black dress
on the back of my chair.

Did you see the stars
As they shone on you
Vivid like a thousand scars
Inside the darkest blue
Did you see the hero

But that hero was you
Onward for people feel
When music becomes true
In the end you're never gone
Eternally remembered in a song

Little chick
under Abba's wing
intimate haven
of sweetest grace

Little child
learning to sing
of infinite joy
in Abba's face