let us curse love songs
like the ambivalent hipster hawk
hiding out in a West Hollywood Hotel,
where nonsense marks the noon days
and I crash like a helicopter
without a pilot.
between the world and her,
she makes a pact;
to stay moving and moving on.
we knew each other in another life
with arms around arms,
Skyy Vodka and cocaine.
way back when in said other existence,
we walked through snow flakes,
along Lexington Avenue,
our fingers between each other’s gloved fingers,
twirling in silence, drunk and twisted,
pretending.
that night after we went back to our
respective significant others,
just shadows falling on midnight,
I fell down the stairs,
and she got hit by a car.
we both stopped dancing for a while.
And now in an interesting postscript
to that intrepid postcard past,
With a chest filled with lessons of retrospect
that we ignore, as we saunter up Sunset,
tangoing to our next morning, our next stolen moment,
and then next Sunday it’s back to our lives, business as usual.
and then next Sunday it’s back to our lives, business as usual.