9:53am.
Red Hook, Brooklyn.
Coffee with whiskey.
Four of us.
Drag, BVR, me,
and Yani.
discussing the stage of poetics
in the Trump dump America,
and our acrimonious relationship
with the poetry scene of NYC.
Fuck the ducks,
we say,
who take it too seriously,
just to swim.
poetry and life live together,
you can't have one without the other,
lost but burned forever,
like the photographs left in the sewer
only to be seen by rats and wanderers.