and half frivolous shoes,
swaying, tripping, on the nod,
settling into my ghost horizon.
She whispers sour and warm
to my sweet icy edges,
contemplating a tender burn
of steely wool failings.
-----
The subway takes me back downtown,
she follows drifting on a tide
of corporate sweat
from the workaday bodies
stacked like cordwood on the F train.
-----
Cupid creeps stalking his prey
on Bowery north of Houston,
writing Valentine's Day poems
on the back of dead band flyers,
torn off telephone poles
and abandoned holy shrines,
blown haunting down Bleeker
after the spectre of Joey Ramone.
I toast them righteous
with a goblet full of glass,
in the end bloody doomed
to shit out the shards
into tenement toilets
of artists unbowed.
-----
Side stepped sick to my soul
down the alleyways of promise
past a rain tickled insolence
free of ethics and ideals,
I taste sulfur and circumstance
and the cyanide of seekers,
when all along she's merely bleached,
free of stingers and the stung:
tied off,
pushing a hot shot
into her hell bound panic;
surfing plasma,
left to fade.
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