Cold and clinging
Kind of evening
At the steps of
The Dakota archway
Are you banging your head
against a wall, Holden Caulfield?
Beautiful boy
(Darling boy)
But the limousine was waiting
Annie Leibovitz had the final image
"And I'm standing on the edge
of some crazy cliff.
That's all I do all day.
I'd just be
the catcher in the rye and all."

Man-made phenomena
litters the sky,
these satellites orbit themselves
--celestial magnets
befriending the galaxy.

Eccentric hours of
the day and night
lend themselves to the after party,
where the girls run in spirals,
the boys just taper off,
it’s a strange side effect
to all the confection and confetti
--an interstellar jackpot
with all the quirks!

There’s no moon out of reach
to bury one’s flag in to
or hang a quote from,
no riddle wisenheimers can't
complacently decipher.

As missions go this is prime
and far too lucrative
when the star machine
starts throwing back from
the electronic heavens,
shooting them off
in such bizarre bans
of incensed fire,
a sure reflection of fireworks
against the artificial currents
of this drug.

There’s no catching
these shooting stars
lightyears from here,
but if you ask nice,
they just might send you a selfie
the next time
your trajectories coincide.

made by human hands/from elements of the ground/and from afar/silver gold and star/burning without memory/or clear trajectory/in a ritual of prayer/and smoke-filled arena air/the only thing that shines forth/the peril and glory/an endlessly rewritten story/of their own sudden demise

Stars are just like us,
they implode without warning,
leaving a debris field
to ride roughshod over.

It is quite a performance,
so they post a sign
and sell tickets,
just to keep it legal.

Stars, they're just like us,
they like it on top,
but often survive
as bottom-dwellers.

They whistle while they work,
clawing at the walls
of a coal mine,
hoping for a little snow white.

Holding fast before the lights
go down, leaving them lonesome
with credit card debit
and video on demand.