Justin critiques the way I read all poems fast
and I blame it on New York City,
but reading his poems aloud
in a rainy garage is the highlight of my weak week.
It's an honor that doesn't come often,
and I am reminded of Thomas Fucaloro;
he and I, young and dumb, running
around Lower Manhattan, bouncing
from mic to mic with drugs and hugs,
talking shit about the old folks who
took up the stage for too long
with their topical poems about nothing now.
If only Justin could've seen that scene,
he would understand where my cadence comes from,
especially on quick nights
when the Rumbler got dangerous.
When you're in the middle
of the gorgeous, gruesome going,
ya gotta read fast and strong,
take a shot of whiskey
and then leave before anyone asks
any questions, thus allowing for mystery
mixed with youth and spooky characters
all along the way of chopping down the door.