On Saturday afternoons I dive into stims
and puffers puffing marijuana and porn,
electric films of red-hot and flaming-hot and ice-hot evenings,
the glow of neon coils in the alley of twenty-one,
and professors and peaches and prissy women and galettes,
the jesus caught in my hair, the juice between my hips,
the cold blue lake in the steel forest, the open vein,
the gushing and the dribble and the hypnotic spice,
I mean running and fucking in the saccharine city, the New New York,
dripping vague honey, blinking black lights,
lost souls parking garage, I mean wasted freaking out above the boulevard,
hoarse peeling off layers of wisdom at the cars below,
fingers blue on the January railing,
I mean (say it!), write me something. Tell me you hear it too.
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