Nightmare Honey

You’ve been drinking

McCormick black pepper

at midnight again haven’t you?

There is no left

or wrong –

a bunny by the vandals.

Hands in your lungs:

most beautiful tart

killed her.

The silence juxtaposed

cicada swamp growling

November 66, 1998.

And want says to reach out

but my ear has a pulse

and drank. Too many

left turns towards

murky autumns are springing

over white crested cliffs.

Some are her and some are summer;

you don't win or win her

when winter is winning her over.

Maybe spring me summer

or fall into spring.

Win some of her winters

or win summer winters;

some are stars summer stars.

The sum of her stars stirring starlight.

Look back and lose another.

Run Long on Broken Lungs

Gone are the days of eastern oysters

                   silver-netted

and falling to pieces when I walk

behind Madison Square Garden for the “Best Slice

of New York Pizza!”

          And on 8^th Avenue, boasting a pagan-ritual sized

sign that reads “Voted One of the 10 Best Slices in the City!”

                   they weren’t actually wrong.

I thought Joe’s in Greenwich was alright

I believe Sal & Carmine’s off Broadway gets the job done

but NY Pizza Suprema just has the ratio near-perfect

          beneath this soft kneeling moon

wading into marinara red –

this pillow-scented road

full-of-reclining-ash vs. void-of-sliding-palms:

It’s good that it’s sad

                   this early in the evening

when the sun is still out on its swing set

          and I miss you more with every flicker of neon on 30^th st. 
out and to the west.

Captain Morrow’s Descent into Wire

Branch bisecting death

or the tree that feel asleep

as far as you can’t see

as far as the horse can carry you.

You wanted to wield a scythe so you did

as sepia clouds set the backdrop for asphalt night.

Sing for dying and sleep tomorrow

to collapsed fences in darker dirt

by the snake in your eyes

or the crucifix above your bed;

I’m sorry July was wrong,

and January became unbearable.

I asked Odin for another chance

while Frigg was weaving dreams in the sky

and he kept telling to me to ask him later

and to fake a smile until it stuck.

I fake a smile and when it sticks

I’m gonna climb over the fenced-in fence

maybe ask Odin again for that scary chance

and try to stop waking up with nauseous dread.

The me that was poisoned by the me that wasn’t –

the me that wasn’t learning to fly

vs. the me that wasn’t: learning to fly;
money on the latter. You will always matter.