and the nickles
and the long division,
while I live, simple, with compassion concussions.
islands aren't pretend
and I need you now, in ashtrays and bottoms of bottles,
xylophones and all,
champagne drinks, too, five minutes til noons.
my hair,
this way or that way, does it matter (?)
oh, the Williamsburg Bridge is still there,
I'd never thought I'd be this far from now, tissues and deliveries and hands.
craft and kitchen,
my beard and bullshit, and the devil has you now,
with violas playing in taken-away breath,
far the way, we are left with mac-n-cheese, only.
I'm praying this is not pretend, crown of kisses of thorns of bone marrow
but pluck your yukon heart, dip your hand, anvil,
you native New Yorker,
you have it all including my words and my wayward autoharp heart.
this tastes like omelets with pencils in them,
so die now, my juniper.
I will always use your un-belief...
to mow the grass with pocket-watch soldiers of lie-hard hearts in crosswalks.