A Poetry Reading on a Rooftop on the Eve to New Year's Eve

with hands reversed,
I hit a shirt and Picked the words out
of a bale of hay.

leave like leaving is me.
brunch was a possibility,
but it ended just in time.
ice on the stoop steps
and I almost eat shit.

took a cab
which took the goddamn FDR.

all the way there.

all the criminals were there,
shivering and pretending
in the Brooklyn Wind.

I could see the steeples of the city
over ugly brown Bushwick crests.
I wanted just to die.
or somewhere else to hide.

bad red wine and of course PBRs
and bad breath Bobs
reading bad poems about bad sex
and a bad ska band
cut short by spitvalves.

I straighten out my shoulders
and simply look up at winter stars
while reading my own bad poems
about chocolate chip cookies
and rivers
and sharp hips
and sweet dreams.

I feel useless up here.

I finish.
The applause lets me down.
I look over the roof's edge
and apologize to the ground,
six stories down.

I'm wearing two pairs of socks
and I wish you were here.
Listen to confusion.
Shy Shy misses the set,
shows up late with Renee.

My legs are freezing.
No whiskey.

You are my favourite colour.
The yellow harp on the edge of the told world,
untold to be me and my saints,
and two days from now
the fine gone world will be different.