guess it’s only fair, in Fall
I’ll take to gumshoeing through
the puter fog
I’ll mark a year in amber
I’ll still beat the streets
of San Francisco, searching
what of her wide, red bed
and the laughter spilling out
Mission windows in the paling
Fall sun?
and of all the things
I
put away, marked in spite
and striated
in anger and blue woe?
the key will always fit the door
a fun time mirror
will always distend the heart
into a grotesque growth and shape
simply-
you’ll always be what I don’t want
but available
20 planes they leave the runway every day
there’s always a wide swinging door to a cage
my poetry’s become jagged
jangling and dislocate
and this one will be
no exception
September’s always black&bad
too many cigarettes and
sorry old armor
my smile is full of pain
beneath the streetlights
waiting
for her Boxter, my fling-
we’ll ride on down below
the poverty line
open the bar and sit in the cool dark
spiking Topo Chico with cheap bourbon
unconvincing laughter in the afternoon
is getting over you.
(c)2014
Going for the Throat 