then she and her boyfriend got into a kind of

argument and they left me there with the wine bottle and

I sat eating fried chicken

and listening to Shostakovich

until 5 a.m.

in the morning.

I know you

you with long hair, legs crossed high, sitting at the end of

the bar, you like a butcher knife against my throat

as the nightingale sings elsewhere while laughter

mingles with the roach’s hiss.

I know you as

the piano player in the restaurant who plays badly,

his mouth a tiny cesspool and his eyes little wet rolls of

toilet paper.

you rode behind me on my bicycle as I pumped toward Venice as

a boy, I knew you were there, even in that brisk wind I smelled

your

breath.

I knew you in the love bed as you whispered lies of passion while

your

nails dug me into you.

I saw you adored by crowds in Spain while pigtail boys with

swords

colored the sun for your glory.

I saw you complete the circle of friend, enemy, celebrity and

stranger as the fox ran through the sun carrying its heart in its

mouth.

those madmen I fought in the back alleys of bars were

you.

you, yes, heard Plato’s last words.

not too many mornings ago I found my old cat in the yard,

dry tongue stuck out awry as if it had never belonged, eyes tangled,

eyelids soft yet, I lifted her, daylight shining upon my

fingers and her fur, my ignorant existence roaring against the

hedges and the flowers.

I know you, you wait while the fountains gush and the scales

weigh,

you tiresome daughter-of-a-bitch, come on in, the door is

open.

bone palace ballet

as many interpretations of

Mozart’s “Mass in C”

as fleas upon my favorite cat,

or as many garbagemen of verse

in a world full of flamingos.

this

tired

life

this dusty dream,

these April nights,

this thunder in a paper cup,

all the old ladies

alone in rooms

working crossword puzzles,

the dead dogs of forever

crushed with

lolling tongues,

the parched innards of

mountains

aching to

scream,

what is this grueling

nonsense?

is it

the worm crawling toward

no paradise?

the scissors in a closed

drawer?

young girls giggling and

lost in their flesh?

the night and then the

day or

the day and then the

night?

the hammer?

the saw?

the mirror which swings

open?

and what about

the dark streets of Dublin?

the last page of the book?

the green park bench alone?

the last necktie?

the last footstep

behind you?

this incomplete sob of darkness.

a wingless bird waiting.

a druid in the wasted light.

a drunk in the gutter.

the singing of fools

and the volcano laughing.

oh

in the bar

the beer bottle in somebody’s

hand

has no chance.

outside there is the sound

of car tires in the

rain.

there is a flash of

lightning.

somebody

laughs.

what can you do?