[Pray high, sinners]

Pray high, sinners. Take the pills and parcel them

out amongst the lot of you. Find forgiveness

in the lighter head, the warmer numb.

Ask our lord for a hand and he’ll shake us

clean. I died for you one time, but never again.

Lift lines like lifting spirits – we live in heaven now.

At least we think this is where we are. Darker

than originally imagined, louder than the place

we came from. Our fathers said this will pass

and we don’t believe them worth a bit of salt.

We’re worth a bit of salt. A bit of sound, quiet

or otherwise – good men know where they are.

We are not good men. We are the big-eyed bugs

who can’t see the future. Who are built to ruin

moviesets and pretty girls crying in their homes.

Eighteen eyes, eighteen drinks in, we can’t see

eighteen inches before us. Damned by our loves.

Silly rabbits – they thought we’d scatter when the lights came on.

Untitled, May 5

Hell used to be further away than the front door

and I can only recall the better lines.

A heart of black gold –

there was a beating to it

once, but the mass

it don’t breathe no more. I want to dig a hole in the world

only to find someone

has done it

before. Baby, defeat me.

There was a desire once, and pure thoughts.

Noble action. A truth that would

burn itself at the stake. Truth like a kiss

like a rock.

Kiss like a rock. Now we kiss like rocks kiss.

She found a strange sweetness in my mouth once,

a taste greater than the smoke.

            More saccharine than the tinny blood

            the sink finds each morning now.

I filled the lungs and the hole. I burned the truth, burned the sugar off.

I learned a lesson once,

            quickly learned to kill:

Killed a heart and it turned black.

Killed a girl and she kissed me back.

Kissed me ‘til the cows came home.

Kissed me ‘til her stop came up.

Fucked, forever

The beautiful boys and girls used to run

ragged through the East Village, puking

on sidewalks and fucking themselves stupid

with the joy they borrowed from each other.

We used to meet their cousins – tight

and smooth, trusting adolescents

from the Midwest. They let their hands

rub up our thighs, to our soft or swollen spots.

Nobody’s cousin is fucking anyone tonight.

There was a time we said: love.

Then, we said: appreciate.

I discovered a lady’s tells, and she sent me away.

I could steal her money and cut out her tongue,

but she would still play with my fingers –

an aimless, silent monologue through a mouthful

of blood. This is how we knew each other.

This is when we drank and fucked, forever

looking for a path. She showed me her light

and it turned out to be a train and a tunnel

and we don’t know what we want anymore.

We do know what we need.

I need a bed that won’t quit and a meter

that won’t expire, something I can keep

time to when the light goes out.

And all she needs is the hard cock

of her handsome man.

For Boston

Boston is not our home, but our sisters
live there. Our sisters' boyfriends live
there too. The former loves we knew
are down the street, those wet-mouthed

boys and girls we kissed on Commonwealth
wait on corners with cold faces.
Kin, made of shared blood
and shared necessity, are creating

new life in the city. From within.
With one another. We are visitors
but our people are not. The city
has adopted them, like it always has.

Boston is not our home, but our mail
gets lost there sometimes. Traveling
by train or by bender, we look
to be welcomed by the ghosts

we left in the backyard of our
neighboring town. We want to have
a drink with you soon, Boston.
You're the friend we've had

since childhood. We don't always
think the same, but we all want
the same thing now. To get back
to the sweet closeness of when

we all felt safe. The soft where
that gives New England its heart.

The Current Political Climate

We shouldn't feel this way this selfish way we shouldn't feel this way
At all. There's a lot going on out there & I just happened to see this
Come across my desk: A man wrote us a letter saying 
He was concerned about receiving mail from us 'cos

Of the current political climate & I said: Well what the fuck
Does that mean? & they said: The goddamn town is boiling!

All the lines can't all be winners. It's a sad state of affairs when
You're too tired to think & too drunk to chase the skirts
To act like you've been there before. But we have been there.
We've been there since the summer of 2002. We get our mail

There. We bring a cup of something hot & sit & wait
For the man to bring us good news about the climate political

Or otherwise. He hates our stupid names & stupid faces
& loses our letters like I'll lose your scent. Just because
He can just because it hurts too much to hold on.
He & I are old enough to know we're being naive

& we still don't give a good god damn. Fuck the right
Thing the adult thing club it like a baby seal & sell it

For a profit. 'Cos some good can come from the loss
Even if it is a bit messy & just a tad unpleasant at times.
These words just this particular set is a waste of wasting
Time & I'm so very sorry if you see them and think less

Of me at all so think of me when I was good when I was
A fucking monster unstoppable & damn-near bulletproof

When all I had to worry about was a finding a home a couple
Of bills I could call my own. I'm running an old program
In a new machine & the gridwork doesn't know how to react
& I don't know how to react to it & I feel we are all getting

Close to something we won't see coming won't be able to put
Our fingers on until it is wringing our weak & sore & stupid necks.