spark*

how sad it is

feeling alone, trying

to find structure, to

live by rules, live

in shadow making up

dreams, shadowing

idols, collecting pictures.

how sad it is

to know yourself

too much-

to stare at the falling moon and

not savor the bottle of chardonnay.

to look at fingernails and veins and

three meeting creases in

a closing palm.

how sad it is

to be awake in

the winter time

6 a.m.- stumbling

through plowed city streets

Richard Carlson in your tape deck

mirrors laughing at

insides laughing at

a beautiful finished exterior laughing at

how sad it is to be alone.

how sad it is

when Frank O'Hara touches you like

exciting happy cold chills on

a sad, cold Tuesday when

you're in that room with

twenty twenty-something strangers who

are discussing- no,

ripping to shit

Mr. Frank O'Hara the poet who

tried and tried to make things new and

funny and died trying as

"The Day Lady Died" stops and

speeds and pauses and

goes, ripped to shit when the

woman in front of you stops singing Billie Holiday.