it is like the many nights

sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,

just like any other night.