Stale breath of air; brunch delivered onto cotton satin mattress womb
Coffee breath and circling fly and dank jaw,
clove smoke deadly hungover sprawl,
ugly mid-morning groans and moans and sleep muffled sighs,
and last nights empty staring bottles of 80 proof diner.

Peel yourself from the nightshade dreamland coma
Throw on and about and coldly together the seamless mismatched dirty clothes,
Crawl out of the ashtray and up the smoke and resume the dream
Oh the rest of the world had never seemed so dead.
Out of building out of downtown up the same old patchwork road,
out of mind and into the counter culture reality you've learned to call home.
Enter the world,
let triathlon feet guide you whichever way they will
Most likely north, uptown to the golden smiled-
deep blue ocean eyed street bohemians trying to get just a little higher,
Artisans who strutted musically with their golden retrievers,
invisible rhythm and unmarketable talents,
smoking renting wherever was small and cheap,
and if need be plunging themselves onto the guns,
girls and boys and things of the gangrene rock n roll underbelly to our pink generation.
Stoned, carrying the dog, the hurt, the friends, and the dope,
dragging along with them their sweet crazy music,willing to do it anywhere-
chain-gang chain smoking marlboro reds furiously down to the last drag,
us black sheep lotus eaters who danced merry all the way uptown,
waiting for the city park shaman who would conjure up a trances for ten dollars a hit
We have come out of the sewers and into the s***,
onto rules and laws and gun of the social police,
letting them fire into our chests to their collective black heart's discontent.
We leave for a party somewhere,
bringing Crocodile tear perfume,
gin cologne, too many masks and not nearly enough pretty girls.
What we see there is blood and nakedness and powder paid for by the holy rolling family estate
Priceless bottles of wine we drank in single gulps.
And then leaving the room and building without guilt.
Saying good bye to the resurrected plastic Andy Warhol figurehead
brought back to life with divine, impossible thread,
dangling down from the dark heavens,
feral instruments of the puppeteer drunk and irrational governing us from the sky.
We become transcendent, ready to ascend the 9p.m. street galaxy all the way uptown,
with supercharged E&J brandy medicine boiling in our liver and revving at our engines,
giving us muscles and sly wit and perfect hair without need for a comb,
while all the way home, we dance and sing madcap laughs.And so we walked the half mile home,
past the posh ivory parts of town,
and then into the maze of broken windows and forgotten alleys,
littered with street vermin,
barely aglow by light of butane and southern comfort and childhood reckless pain
Facing the growing then dwindling hours before dawn,
absorbing the city's constant beat,
the perfect cocktail of great sex and stoned Jazz.
Charisma. Character. Never so complete.
Not caring who is on top,
who is on bottom.
Or what is watching stimulated from beside the bed
savoring in sight and mind the hurt, the dope, the words,
and unholy, unforgiven art of our late night lives.
Us meager strung out mice in the maze,
Oh to be free and naked and evil in the eyes of the bloated and fearful,
but to know that you are in love.
Clinging to the bat out of he** face of daily delirium and misunderstood spectacle,
Visiting coffee shop, nature walk, streetlight societies, three streets and a bottle later because you know I love to hear you talk.
Emitting the glow from a bright minds in dark clothes,
You're always shivering because nobody cares, and no one knows
And then suddenly,
suddenly I am alone.
Returned to one bedroom Studio Apartment boredom-
with warm chardonnay and potato chips,
and paper-thin walls as my radio
the view from my window my the color TV
Hot coffee breath; clove smoke hangs in the air once again
we may now feast on our midnight dinner.