Some folks across the street decided
at 1:30 AM to scream bloody murder.
Since then I have contemplated
the nature (qualified)
and the extent (limited)
of my love for my fellow man.
It is fuck-all snowing outside.
Here are some pictures. But
I guess if you are reading this,
you have already seen it.
I happily look forward to tonight
when I will see you again.
If I should fall asleep, please
prop me up with a broom handle,
a glass of tequila in my hand.
In a recent hayloft on an October afternoon,
a great love story was dictated
from a tattoed arm to a knife
to a massive pork.
At the time, I was determined
not to have a good time, but
as we slid from tenderloin
to shoulder and deep into
sowbelly, I stopped trying
to recall the plot of part two
of the film Short Circuit.
I soon was slaved into captivity
by Bryan's intimate relationship
with our ex-ungulate. Life
and food found me, and I was lost
in a butcher's love for the butched.
In time the sundered sow
would slowly roast into a meal,
but in this moment in the middle
I learned about a man -- Bryan
the butcher, and his passion
twisted my eyes awake
into a moment from which
they remain unclosed.
The Tyler say a Saturday
night in New York is just
a Wednesday night in Brooklyn,
and as the night slides
right past twelve, who are you
to disagree: the Tyler would
say that you are a fine
a friend to find on the curling
surge toward the weekend.
Good night, friend. Tyler say
he'll see you Saturday
for cinnamon, shrimp & raisins.
Photos don't show what the Coco knows,
and the green grass will not tell a soul.
The glow in the fire lends to us a clue:
where once there was nothing,
here is something warm.
But when the hamhock went begging
was when Coco really started to shine.
From our haylined trench we waited
from dispatch to dispatch from the Coco front.
And Coco's intelligence arrived in code:
this is tasty. This is warm.
This is something else
Coco would like for you to know.
Carpenters know that carpentry
is primarily colored in yellows & greens:
witness the wild greenish-yellow
in which floats the level's bubble,
and you will start to see what they mean.
Clothes do not make the carpenter,
but a yellow flower makes the clothes,
and an Amanda around is handy
when you're screwing yourself back together
not so long after you've tied one on.
Hairy fruit is twining its way
up twisted twigs along the horrifying
Hudson; and tonight all eyes
are on the Catskills foothills
where the spirits of Henry's
mutinous crew may return tonight
to tweak with midnight piglike sprites.
Meantime our bottles of bourbon
seem to be drinking themselves
while our mouths mutter prayers
while the gibbous moon waxes,
and tomorrow our minds
will just barely remember.
Soft rain yielded
to the red Mercedes
Saturday on the high Hudson.
Coco told me
where I was going.
I was mildly astonished.
We were hanging out
with the hanging pigs
in the hayloft
before the coffee was cold.
Coco, tell me everything
you know: about your
revolutionary cigarette
and dry boots for my toes.
Maybe your eyes
will see them, if
you aim them low.
