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
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