how hard to make poetry make music
make love these days with bills at the door.
when warren buffet trumps old leonard,
the working class man is shucked like marrow

.

i'm too comfortable for my own good finishing
the day with ice cream drowned in rum.
i stumble into california in a haze of ganja,
the mission district whore greets all with damnation

.

saul perlmutter laughs and robert reich chuckles
but the doctor has no jokes for leptospirosis and the world's poor.
i touch annie clark and watch merrill scream,
the girl behind me faints, confesses her early crimes

.

our bikes take us from the east to the west coast,
up the golden gate, and down the world's saddest flea market.
she counts tattoos and fixed gear bikes and simpers
at window reflections and sean connery in film

.

if happiness is a san fran burrito served by the stranger
who calls me hermano, what is strawberry pie
and iced coffee with a girl you love?
jiro says nothing and a fish coughs to death

.

we drink belgian wheat beer and talk about his startup,
sip sparkling shiraz with logistics of postgrad dating,
watch a banker wander into the jazz club,
the pink glow erases his earnings in hipster ale

.

in the old chinese tales, corpses walk
and humanity is fixed in revolution, a nation propped
up like a cadaver marching to the arrhythmic heart of man.
ice cubes clink in my glass and the midwest disappears

.

i do this all in memory, in a night of nostalgia,
remembering how all will be forgotten in time.
it's funny how time sneaks out and cheats on the mind
and tries to slip back into the sheets as if nothing happened

.

did i dream in verse before, find lyrics in vomit and moans,
or is this a figment of guilt? these days when i want to write
i fall asleep or give up

what is the point, youth, but to cherish it