Not quite aquamarine

she had an aquamarine
latte that night.
wonder what kind of
latte
that was
up to
this day...

I joined her. The table must've been
some kind of von Stuck
fanciest fancy
the absurd of the chairs...
of the air
of her
& the latte
& the row of
pigeons
how I wish I could
pluck'em, the bastards...

le "Milord" was merely some background
noise
for your casual midnite chat-chatters
cafe-crawlers
retro vipers in stripes
who were talkin' on theater
as most of them were
underrated
actors
hopin' to score
some anorectic Dietrich
incarnations
& polish up their roles
to pay the
rent
so this was definitely
not
the background noise...

We talked on life - that's easy
we've lived on talk -
that's harder
we hardened up -
that's walkin'
the life
under the
ventilator's
full-fledged
thin junk
against ourselves & the tide

she said I should write a book
I said she should
fuck
off

suddenly felt so awake...
got the hip, the hep
her hip
& the coolcat latte later
god, she is
golden -
got sober at instant
seen through her
through me
through the midnite
winged messengers
through the world's
improvised
shell...

I've been asleep for days
two or three or goddamn eleven
longest
bourbon dreams
ever
so who do you think I am,
a poet?
I've seen drunk bastards like me
before...
I've seen them write works of
magic..
I've seen them then die
at bus stops or trains...
I've seen their books on toilet
paper
I've been through all this
zoo

& the city
I should
long ago exterminate
rains all over
the angels
wasted...

& as the chat-chatters went chattin"
on
& the Milord went on milordin'
I walked back home
alone
feelin' so out of place
as this goddamn cup of
cold
coffee
& four bare walls of
redemption
inside