I stayed up listening to Thousand Knives of Ryuichi Sakamoto
as I wrote my back arched like a scorpion tail
Hi-C Mode, I called it, 'specially in bed
as most thoughtless tales that came from my head
I thought of my buds
in far away places,
in tight city spaces
in sawdust, kabobs, smog, cocaine
tinged with metal
tinged with absence of conversation,
how your feet ached
at the entrance of your subway
split goodbyes in that second
I'd say
yet withdraw from this lousy Smarch weather
I drew a signal to them in the window of a car
a Quyen head in snow
used to tag them around Temple
in an instant (a bowl of pears a mug of hot water )
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