As a practice to perform my ritual dance
for that voyeureuse I get drunk before noon
every Sunday, sitting on the edge of the Santa Cruz pier.
Feet kicking the air energetically, I smoke an entire pack
of menthols and drink a bottle of cheap wine before
walking away with glee. This is the only time I smoke
in the hopes of you walking up and asking to bum one.
The only time despite disappointment I feel happy.
Why are we thin boys who call ourselves the men of Salem,
Oregon still attempting to imagine the perfect golden
bird? Are we not content to watch the shadows of the colorless bird
that pecks at our feet? I may be alone in my disbelief in gold
but I believe in the value of an Atlantis torso
a chest of treasure sinking fast with a flushing sound
that can only be heard by what is in and by the chest itself.
I am of the type that never cries. And yet
here is water, and that damn tickle
I haven’t felt in so long. Why must I think of such dumb words
while I want to bathe in the beauty of every
word you chose? I’m sure I started writing this sober,
I started writing with something completely different
in mind but here is this intent to recite
to you to remind you who we are when we are in each others arms
again, but the bystander days walking towards and away
without a mention of you or your self-shamed sigh fluster
me, making me acknowledge this will never happen.