Nights Like These
A Poem
The clouds hang atop the city within a bruised sky
like milk wavering within a glass.
A monetary temple cuts the viscous night where starlight reverberates just out of eyeshot.
On nights like these I no longer wish to be in the world — but i believe — only for a lack of money and recognition. And That
is about as honest as I have ever been with myself.
I fall back into dreams and the cooing images of my ego’s projections.
To watch my wifes hair waver the wind along a Mediterranean coast. Vast crowds gathered and resplendent echoing voices rippling throughout a confetti covered Rome.
The external world refuses to commit to these honeyed visions.
And that is just fine.
I like it better here. Within four walls playing classical music alone and
imagining some bar in Harlem in the fifties where jazz sweat coats the wooden floor and the ice cubes swirl starlike in their crystal wombs.
