cigarette clouds on avenue a. a rodent rifles curbside garbage. highness, I'm sensing your rat-like desire for me--eyes bloody--sour lunged. the smoke in your voice excites me. but it's damn hot out here. industrial summer, stale par-fumes and the bitter taste of words

this cloud language we slide through our teeth--smoke rings--doughnut hole of desire circled by ephemera. it's all, you know, like nothing. for example, a derelict half dead on the steps of our favorite flea bag, his hands waving off invaders. imagined voices. they speak to him--they sound in his mouth. he muscled a child from her bed, sacked her away for sick pleasure until the authorities tracked him to a new jersey patch of woods. "is she hurt?" he asked them, standing over the body rot, his wrists locked in silver. none of it true, as it turned out. just language carved into smoke. his skywriting. his story

some fantasies are knife throwers. that's no carnival thrill, no swing ride for the jaded--at least not for this demento. keep your teeth to yourself. tonight the moon, a fat crater face. otherwise blank. on avenue a we stumble drunk. verlaine in his prison wrestled down the light, an accidental gift from the star god, bouncing off a dead rock