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If I’m half a man on percodan I was there
the night they brought him in ankles
broken high & empty lowdown
with four pages torn from “Chaos
in Poetry” tranquil & tight
lipped as Lawrence painting his umbrella :
sky blue & mirror image of an empty
seat in Falchetto’s Bugatti
repeated man knows there’s something
wrong man knows there is something wrong
said he stalked the park with the damned
nickel colored trumpet said a
b-flat in Dorian sails thru
winter trees eighth rest caught the break
in a limb branch to fork fork to
sprout elm to the neural heart oak
to open vein-trees in the brain
fools boxed-in red corners in each
eye bled pale & dry from inside
cursed the snare lick : that drum machine’s
white! said if he could just go fix
his own Ferrari & not crack
it up he’d live on a desert
island pave him one snake-hipped road
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