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I lost my keys, they skipped off in the breeze, slithered between high balconies. I plucked my pin but the lock’s hole had grown  like moss on a stone. With nobody home (who wants to be home?) it paralyzed  then fossilized. I hung myself across your chair when I lost the affair. Put my legs through the holes, and counted my moles. I thought it only fair  you remember me bare but I felt like a germ; analyzed until despised.  I lost the road,  carved one out like a code, found

New York is fine  at 54 degrees. Ice cream  is possible and the parasites  in the hot dogs are probably dead.  The sun is hung somewhere  out of sight. Hell’s Kitchen is shaded  beneath a dome and you are trapped.  Storefront-stacked fertilizer seems useful  but isn’t. The sidewalks are just wet  enough to seem mopped. The dollar  slice is $1.50 and the wind carries smoking meat, gin, hand sanitizer, citrus peel,  occasionally sugar. New York is  54 degrees and there is nothi

Because tonight, Patti Smith sang a cappella; the poem put to rock, written for her husband, before she made him a husband, when they lived in different states, and she saw me in the crowd and said Just because they do not see you does not mean that you do not exist. Then she realized her fly was down and I saw all of humanity swimming in the portal of her barrel jeans, the humanity where I had drowned, mistaking light for air, and God spoke through Patti Smith, Just because

There is something  black and soft growing behind the toilet.  No, I haven't touched it, it just looks soft. Upon inspection, it has free time,  does reformer pilates,  and ignores its guarantor.  I think it is making me sick. The hanging garden is sliding down and turning an effervescent brown.  The return of my deposit relies on resurrection. There is ice inside  the window pane and the smell of the space heater  burning wakes me up to remind me, you are a lucky one. I am,