Rusted globs roll boorishly from the roof,
collect,
glimmer,
and fall seven flights
to pulse squandered rhythm onto the alley.
But oh, to know it young
like a Beat ideal.
To speak in the loosened voice
of nowhere glances.
To say,
“Typhoon
with nothing short of screams for all this beautiful young life
that drowns in cirrhosis like cheap wine.” […]

[Read more →]