I wish I knew

I’m drinking a Gin drink
in a big window at my bar.
I’m pretty sure I look pretty good
In here. I’m a Gazillionmile starer.
I kissed L___’s cheek and her
Hard tits pressed a silent goodbye into me.
It’ll be a week. It feels like longer, more wide.
And now I’m thinking how I cannot wait
to deposit in the arm of Z__ some yellow
or yellow-purple flowers.
And I think how we are nearly
Close friends and wonder if she’ll put
the flowers on her dresser or
On the little table near her clothes.
And tho these scenes I’m showing you so far
in this poem are light like charms, like
light manners,
They are like the pretty skin that
Houses and defends the meat of life;
touched on every surface with the Perfume of womanhood,
that way we delicately love eachother
with signals, flowers, glances, hours — the
light little things that matter. Much.

I’m going to show up at
Her birthday and I’ll already be a
Little drunk. I’ll come alone.
I think the flowers won’t be crushed
Too much after I change trains twice.
I am a satellite. I careen into many orbits.
I like to be alive and to go and to go there
footloose.
The other Night this Chubby Checker song
Came on called goodbye victoria.
The chorus goes “goodbye victoria
goodbye victoria goodbye victoria!
Everybodys going to the moooooon!”
I imagined standing deckside on the observatory,
brushing a hair away, while my friends
lovers, the ones I have distantly admired,
rocket off, leaving me both in command
Of the abdicated world — with all
scuzz, free vending, symbols swinging
seriously from lanyards, pens and yards —
And breathlessly alone.
Weird belly longing for a scene
I invented. It isn’t coming,
But I recognize that the imagery in it is
sometimes running quietly in the background
of the day, waiting to be thought of.