A rusty dangling sign
points somewhere;
he comes to me,
painted and pained;
my arms don’t reach,
but my mind is so open…
the yawning chasm
means I probably didn’t love him well;
much falls with a cracked hinge.

A sour electric snap
of guitar
was our prelude-

our daily feast
was spread
on the sidewalk of sodom,

but there was grace
with a flicker
of a red light.

Letting go
is an ornamental
exercise-

like mixing fancy words
and throwing them like cooked pasta
to see what sticks;

sometimes it’s
“fundamentals of rigorous thinking”
and sometimes it’s “I love you”
– both of which are better kept secret
so you don’t spill like an untried youth
embarrassing yourself
with verve.

I’ve learned to spit out
the most self-immolating
distractions.

The hard part
is keeping the joy of falling again
to yourself.

I was so damned surprised
to find Lou Reed leaning on the lamppost,
I forgot I was carrying a bag of apples.
They fell and he laughed, à basso.
When I could tear myself away
from his saucer-eyes,
I realized two things:
we were so close, our toes were touching,
and Jim Carroll was standing beside me,
looking up at the flickering light.

An old New York was floating
like a proscenium in a school play
and the two men were chanting
while I watched smoke and buildings rise.
It was a greasy dust –
like modern tar pits.
Lou was humming
and Jim gave the words
– like a filthy epitaph for a quickie
against a brick wall
‘those were the days her thighs gave way…’
and I was her
and I couldn’t stand
so I leaned on Jim
but he was so slight and light and faded,
we crumpled like newspaper
and blew toward the pier.
Lou said ‘wild!’ and sauntered to catch up.

I forget what happened next.
But I tasted brine
in the morning
and my hair was flying free
across a stained pillow.
I’m sure I can find that lamppost again
and maybe the smoke
will still taste of poetry and beer
when the old town fades to a street corner.