Behind black and white garbage, inside a circle that sprays rainbows. 

Broke.

Chinatown, Little Italy, payphone bodega. Frank Sinatra Ramones waltzin’ after midnight. A naked kid upstairs. 

Al sur, dos torres.

Liquid liquid’s like a jungle sometimes. Christmas Eve: the TV on and the Empire State like a needle in a snowstorm. Sleeping on the floor above the angels on Broome Street. Moody, yeh yeh. Bled to death in a concrete block. The Garden’s super 8 cherry blossoms, VHS canolis in the Pyramid. The Kiev after Danceteria. 

These years, these 99 art Budweiser nights with the Blue Jays and Jack and Dennis and Toyo and Hey Hey Hey. 

I got up and left and the bones became a tiny tea room.