Breakdown

Some of us are never alone
because we can't be.

Our brains don't work
the way they are supposed to,

but, just remember, you're never alone
because you have me and

when I'm right, I'll always
have a minute to spend with you.

Cool

"Rise and fall,

you know.  That's what all of

the day to day is,"

you pulled up the zipper 

on your white sweatshirt,

the one with the red block letters

outlined in gray

from your parent's alma mater.

The red fades

close to the depth of

your eyelids where the spring

afternoon light falls

autumn sleepless, but your

smile is still sharp,

in glimmers,

as upended shopping carts,

at empty bus stops.

A piece of the curb,

yellow chipped and pitted,

skips like pocket change 

along cobble ribbed 

river waves 

dotted with ten ounce dixie cups

filled with milk sun.

"Come on, man,"

I don't reject 

what's left of

your cigarette,

your fingertips grazing my chin

in the exchange.

Our hoods are too loose

as we head into the breeze,

motors silent, but tacking

in steps that fill the width of sidewalk

like a cross eyed bartender,

sails full.

"When you've made it,"

ignoring the burn of wind jostled spark

in the corner of my eye, 

"it all blends together?"

I pull the strings of my black sweatshirt

and smile back,

the homeless man and his

garbage bags of late nights

disappearing from above

my rows of teeth still hurting

from the side bursting laughter of

running out of ways to 

describe myself to human resources
"I've been thinking of becoming
a full time Eskimo.  They're always
hiring in Alaska."

Our shoulders 

play a soft note against each other,

our feet taking us 

into the same square of cement,

"Something like that,"

you touch the chap of your lips

with a fingernail days out of polish

the way I would have

in a different life.

"Every year, this time of year,

I look forward to more leaves

on the ground than dancing above

in the trees I've never been tall enough

to reach on my own."

Your sneaker catches

against the cement and

we laugh a little more

in the cool of another year's afternoon.

Call Sign of the Dragon

Though it's been long
so so long and
so so
in its being
I'm still watching out
for your call sign
on the civil band radio
because I am
flying kites
in a tropical storm and
what good is bottled lightning
with no one to
show and tell.

Four one one two two
and I like it.
I like it.
Sixty nine one oh one
and five zero one two.

Tell me, tell me
everywhere you've been
because I am tuned
to the called signs
of a world ending
planet spanning
star light dragon.

Radiate

Chipped paint and
stale chips.
Pool tables and alley cats
taken in riffs.
We were Kill van Kull
trash ballsy out of
Staten Island.
More guts and glory
than admiral Hallsey.
What you had to eat
silly snacking
we stole on streets
from delis and
drugstores
and had more games
and stupid fun
than Rick James.
Parts and parcel
to tar papered roofs
and carpet staples
still plugged to naked floors.
Valley living
and so far away
from Hollywood.
Popsicle sticks
stuck to lips and
hitched up language.
Being young and dumb
and gifted on the island
of dumpsters and brown lots.
We grew up
a different way,
tough and tuck
for different reasons.
We were boys and girls
for all seasons.
Able to do
what never before was done
and able to go the distance
from the addressed
to the from.
We don't party hard.
We live it skin tight.
We don't own
what we do is
gift the night.
We ride the lightning
and wank the knife.
We don't even scores
we keep the game tight.
While you sit on
champagne and orange juice
and lament the
morning rain
we stay audible
and walk with aviators
regardless of the time of day.
We drink forties and
push more of these
because every minute
is another executions stay.
We were whipped dumb
and succumbed
to generational short circuits,
we weren't first
or the fastest
or on trends out the gate,
but, fuck, we'll be some
sad ass day time t.v. story
if we don't push shit back
bite your face
and take
just a minute
to fucking radiate.

Walk Like an Angel

I'm still getting used to
the hammer falls
of your heels on our floor.

The recklessness of the sound
that charges like gunfire
against my eardrums.

You weigh not more
than the sum of my little finger and
when you wake
the feathers of your wings
touch my nose
to giggling tears,

but you walk with a carelessness
I am unaccustomed
and I cannot understand

how something so beautacious
so silly gorgeous and sporting
so fresh a pedicure and
artful a nail job

can walk stunting and with
abandon, until I realize
I've walked on my toes,
catty and twice as squirreled,
for twenty odd years
because I was born to a hell

where each day was
a new way to learn
how to make myself
and my own wings
small
so the monsters couldn't find me.

I'm still getting acclimated
to the ease of
heaven's promenades,
but I'm glad I have you
to teach me.