November 2011
3 posts
Better Going Down
when I pissed
the cure it
landed in
spittoons meant
for beer and
‘backy
there it steamed—
it smelled like
lottery
failure stubs—
I ordered
Round Two.
Underpass, Auburn Avenue
they floated as wraiths
and itched like saints
they scanned for tourists
and horked cheap smokes
they hacked at honor
and licked old bones
they puked the pavement
and smiled at stairs
they wanted money
and all I had
were words
Yellow Leaves
I may not
have pushed
myself
toward
being
alone
I may not
have plumbed
the waste
of heck
had I
not seen
the stars
gleam atop
mountains
cold and
so blue
