I’m crying onto my tits thinking about the sound
of Frank’s bubbly gin mixed with Alka-Seltzer.
I’m crying naked over snot and a cold breeze and a documentary.
I suck on ice chips anyway, as
I’m the only one left to tell you about it.
I’ve stopped moving out of people’s way
and started masturbating to sunsets.
It’s fucked up to say “If you lived here,
you’d be home right now.”
I always picture it on a billboard in gray prairie,
but pictures are angry
this is not to speak highly of New York, but
to those too dedicated to The Game to poop at bars
an ode to the 9th street PATH station and killing yourself off in an opera,
tired people sitting in ugliness for so long
bloated over time like subway rail mice,
mean and ugly,
skin like old wet cake,
and yelling at young men trying to play the trumpet in peace.
I want to be covered in stars and eat bodega candies that
have been covered with deep snow all winter.
eaten up in floor-to-ceiling windows and
softly gumming at the night,
I pop a nerve in my wrist pulling at
the waistband of your jeans
write a sex scene:
intimately describe the lacerations on your hand:
a bruise as the name of a poem and
washed up seaweed on fields of cornflower,
that is, sad and confused
I’m my own babes in toyland.
I kiss the inside of a plum,
eat half of it and throw the rest away,
have premonitory dreams about menstruating,
worry about growth and lack of