The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes

& I know, I know.
       I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
      some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
       yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
                 but sometimes this is just the tune
                                    your heart sings, a broken smile
                                    & the way the images build up
                                        waiting to sail like ships in the harbor


& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,

the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch

& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic

glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds

like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,

searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life, 
changing countries like some change bed sheets,

others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet

childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,

spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets

far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds

in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white

& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions

them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :

you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions

Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover

lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke

& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men

ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen

silent girl in the red dress,              what else do you hide behind      that smile?                                                    "The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold.                                
The curves of your lips rewrite history." the hollows of your cheeks casting diffuse rose shadows, the soft glare—      lips that make the smile but don't quite touch the eyes,      eyes that see to you but you don't see them back,        —peering out of the frame, half turned to go
but just there enough to see (your eyes are so wide with joy); be this happy forever, it suits you. your knowing winter face is shy and alive, and you never say anymore but you are glowing— in this, ironically,            you are exceptionally dissonant; the permanence is
astounding—     startling, halogenic— you, the girl in the quiet red dress, captivate.                and no one will see you.

I once met a boy
That smelled of oranges and sycamore trees
He wove stories of aristocracy and rebellion
And with each word he spoke
My infatuation only elevated
Filling my lungs and stomach with a feeling I knew must have been

Love.

He shone as furiously as the sun;
Scorching the weeds of my mind into shriveled had-beens.
And as the sun,
Everything he touched was instantly a work of art
Gleaming of gold as if he were Midas
And I-
I was halogenic to his warmth,
All of me under his gentle control

But he was the sun.

And as sons do, he faded as gently as he arrived
Leaving dumb humans like me in the dark-
Having never seen the fire behind the felicity…

Darkness cascaded her gentle arms over my sunburnt body.
With the smell of sycamore trees still lingering in the air,
And with oranges stuck in my throat,
I sat.
And waited for another sunrise.