perfect bridge

I sped down an endless brooklyn street,
traffic lights swimming above me like fish.
a red one swam off to nibble the moon,
so I passed it without stopping.

the milky way weaved through the sky,
a long, graceful trail of puke.
even higher, someone gave cpr to the universe,
but we were all too drunk or sleepy to care.

wasted butterflies fluttered
past my side view mirrors,
wings tattooed with portraits
of all the friends lost
and all the women fucked.

murals applauded as I raced by. I was the
only one drunk enough to understand
colorful, corroded storefront signs in
chinese, hebrew, russian,
and a thousand other languages.
finally I understood that all those
bakeries, bodegas, and laundromats,
were simply there to get and give love.

racing over a speed bump,
my car arced above rooftops – looking up,
I saw a constellation shaped like my favorite wingman.
another was shaped like the cockblocker
who accidentally drank my pinot grigio.

when I landed again,
it was on a long, perfect bridge
ending somewhere between
my side and your side of the bed.