my eyes open dangerously
in Skid Row San Francisco
with steal and braun behind my lids
and the discreet charm of geometry
in my crooked trial heart.
every single time I dream,
my eyes reject what they see
blinking something about
a vacant life rife with regret,
where only age and graves are real.
I check my Facebook
and see eight hundred friends,
only fifteen of which are real,
and so I go back to books of poetry
and the bottle just before the push of the sun.
god bless the real and the weird,
and the broken hot plate
which makes me go outside,
just to eat and exist beyond my eyes,
because the morning is my favorite place.
if something is lost, it is worth framing
just to remember, just to eventually burn
in a carfire while you are running into
the post office to get stamps
to mail her a separate memory altogether.