Funny how I hear your drunken silken voice
calling in the ally, blue-black angles here
define the shadows of telephone wires
cut into a small-scale cubist canyon. 

And what if I let them resonate 
like purple razor beams in haze
across the memories of a
strange person in a stranger town?

Trying to drown the recollection
of small fry in a tank of paranoia.
At least down here I avoid ya.
You shark. Me minnow. 

My mind foresees walking barefoot
across minefields of junkies' darts
stuck in the ground trying to
explain myself to you.

It's not your fault. It never was.
Funny how life is like a drunk
Stumbling down dark alleys. 
Time goes by in dark alleys. 

Freedom always unravels
the fringes of the future.
It's a hope I nurture along
the trail of boarded-up windows.

He passes judgment with each yesterday step. 
Google it. It was to be our destiny0.
The problem is we're trusting
other people to know

what when they don't.
Neither do I.
The only strength in positions such as this
is peripheral vision. 

You are lost. I am the lost carcass 
of hope; the three-month dead rat
decaying in the blue cubist ally
off from the dead squirrel's sense of smell. 

Queer tourists never touch dead rats.
I resurrect them all the time like an
Obsessive Compulsive nursery rhyme
wandering beside the graffiti.
 
"live long and prosper"
"×÷=/F_<>>G]" how
     beyond the dumpster 
spilled to the ground?

Leonard Nimoy's painted face shows
no shock in pink and orange
and blues and greys.
Burberry Blursday booms

into funhouse mirrors
and I refract into myself. 
"I want you to never forget me."
I wish I could. 

But I never will.
And so I destroy my soul. 
"Where are you, Love?"
I do the tango of doubt

passing tropical fish of painted boys
not sure whether they try to find
What? Peace? Solace?
the way back to home?

if it ever existed at the Aquarium Hotel.
They ache so mightily. 
There's nothing I wouldn't do to find you amongst them.
You call again. 

I can hear you calling like the voice
of tomorrow from a fresh-cut grave.
Tell me nothing really is in it. 
It's just a wave underneath the ocean's golden glare

I would not mind you calling again. 
My golden token, broken goldfish on the ground. 
But I hear the incessant nagging tone.
"I'm sorry. The number you have called.  . ."

Nighttime is fear manifested in a militant stare
the sky an empty bedpan above.
  Watching my shadow hoping no shadow
follows to the doorway of destiny. 
                                                  Or nausea. 

Each time a window sees my reflection
it shatters. Overcompensation is the tell.
Never over-tell your story,
    put emphasis on your skill.

Know your free will. Like I thought I loved you. 
I'm not in working order.
I might shine like the silver of the Hoosier moon.
I might shine again. 

I'm just a murky shadow
     the only time is now.
The name of the game is survival.
Overcompensation is the tell.

At times like this, your only strength is peripheral vision. 
No secrets. No lies. No bother. Don't try.
     The name of the game is survival.
And you're wonderin' how 

Odd man out.
                    Know your free will. 
And so I kill myself until I die. 
Finally. 

I find myself in a dim-lit bar
 with long mahogany rails and brass bars
off that skidrow wrong side of town
in the tourist district neon-lit facade. 

They pay so much attention it distracts me.
That mixed cocktail of pills blue,
red, yellow, white flashing beacons. 
And me wonderin' how

Jim Beam? Bombay?
Helicopter port? A simple ale?
     Sometimes i think I got it
     then you know I don't.

I find myself within a decent dapster bar
with a legitimate bartender
     the green-skinned man
     in the black plastic suit.

Waiter. Attention. Eye contact. Anything. 

I'm sorry that you thought it
now I swear I won't.
Don't be an asshole. Just don't. 
Gin Tonic chronic

Falling down the chasm of forget.
It was a tragedy of bad strategy
     a murky shadow
     only time is now.

Don't think it.
     Don't think it. 
Stop playing semantic games
with my inner prostitute

as that turns out I've loft 100 
A balloon 
     A balloon inflated 
          A balloon inflated on my ego.

Golden Boy 
I'm floating like a Macy's float 
                    above this crowd roaring 
     with the sound of a crankshaft 
                                               without oil.

Am I alright? Or did I drop out?
Are you? Will you? Calling me here, soldier?
My guts spill golden fragments of light.
The gut wrenching purge of salvation. 

My soles crunch into broken glass.
The smell of vomit as it splats off my ass.
You didn't love me more than you.
"Siri, call Uber."

Uber call me sir.
I wish I could find my way back to the Aquarium. 
I'm staying at the Aquarium Hotel.