We've got cisterns
full of somethingless waste.
They bring black flowers
to white nights
on Broadway and East Fifth.
I live with them
in rundown mountains,
dying casinos,
roofless bars,
and fallen homes.
If you've seen them sitting
there, smiling, talking, laughing
with their beards and beers,
you've seen them falling
down into
empty streets
with whores, wretches,
junkies, and the like.
Always one step away
from dying too young
with nothing to say.
Always one sip away
from Nothingtown Oblivion--
Can't they find another way?
I watch them
as they whore themselves
so selfishly away
to all women with big smiles,
and countless adulteries
they're back to that same place
with those same eyes
and leading on
to a night
of hollowed out

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