The Breslin earns a Michelin star!
Air radiates cinnamon, bags glow Gorilla
coffee: charred banana tree
we watch looped films of John Reich and
Coltrane doing whole pieces in E
On E how do you sustain variety
but oh Johnny do & oh honey don’t
New York like it might’ve been:
SPAGHETTI 30¢ and womp womp
on the trombone
New York like it is:
Baby boutiques pruned shivering
dogs food blogs and matching bracelets
ROY FUCKING HALLADAY! No-hitter,
It’s Doctober! my brother hollers
Today the blue air is a bioluminescent
starfish over the cigarettes.
Skip the poet café
Skip the Michelin party (tired of floral wallpaper,
powdered noses, devils on horseback)
Sit alone in Brooklyn; bloom into gin,
suffer the moron from San Diego
hassling Frankie the bartender.
Think shut it. Write your poems
to the candle dance
and anise. This is where
the one you muse on sits & squints
with Don DeLillo.
Would he like your hair?
He lifts a thing with lemon,
& all that in a cardigan
Are you talking
to the string bass
or saran wrap or
the crushed ice?
For once are you talking
to the light
which is tiny & votive which is not like the sun
are you talking to the sun?
They’ll tease your carrying voice
from bedrooms on corners
Whatever, whatever. Soon
darkly you’ll rise –
and you frustrated in your endeavors.
Look to the cool
serenity of the unassuming
hands-in-the-sink polishing glass
Awake under an armpit
rub your nose to find
the one who ambles through your mind
clips of film directors
saying never resolve,
no happy answers