There’s nothing with which to begin but your own nothing.
Repertoire of nonsense sunshine
after black bathroom stalls at the Rat
where my right hand’s stamped
& the intricate patterns of bootsoles glow
in silver graffiti sfumato.
I fall behind on a good time
I’ve stolen from my looks for poetry.
I’m sick of my costumes
delicate & posthumous
& furthermore I’m sick of this grail that doesn’t exist & is therefore
Through the dark hoping for light
& through the light waiting for night.