drinking songs



as lost as the moon is is
just as lost as the sun is.
as lost as the stars are is
just as lost as the smallest
speck in my wineglass.


all week wine has fallen into my mouth,
made itself at home in there,
uninvited and unannounced like a rainstorm.
each night, I walk eternal blocks,
taking selfies with street lamps and gutters.


we get so drunk
that I think she’s a
bottle of white
and I’m a bottle of red.
then we drink each other up
until we’re empty and invisible.


if I hold the glass
of sauvignon blanc
at just the right angle,
then the jazz set
will last forever.
the jazz set
will last longer
than the sun,
but only if
I hold the glass
at the right angle.

sunday 12:01AM

new york is a perfect place
to fall in love, die,
and come back as a pigeon.
in fact, that’s what we’ll do,
we promise each other,
in between another set of jazz
in a basement that smells,
but seems beautiful too.
I’ve fucked so many others,
but you’re the only one left
I want to listen to jazz with.

outside, the stars are
as wasted as we are,
falling to the ground one by one,
or in cauliflower clusters.