Gone
Like egg yolk over easy
Spilling over into blackness
Where I lay spread-eagle
On my mattress
And dream of a city
Seeped in human shit
Where flies swarm around your head
And the night screams of the undead
But the street signs are plastered in posters
And I take pictures of future plans
Like “Insects! A Pleasure Factory”
and “Ana’s Merry Meadow Land.”
I land
In this cinder block city
Calling out for a home across the garbage cans.
Her day,
Trauma and autism,
canceling plans,
circling back,
her nerdy boyfriend
listens to my podcast
in a kiddie pool
in the attic
after microwaving pork
and pulling up naked Josh Brolin
with cookies in the oven.
I've never known what boredom feels like.
touching grass is never enough;
I need to smell the hot urine
of the 14th Street-Union Square L train platform,
a place that has seen some sorrows
(I have left some there; so has she),
I am compelled to chaos,
and keeping the current flowing
like fire.