Turning’s Time Machine

The ticker tapes have run out,

swallowing ones and zeroes,

while from a perfect and pink aporia

dangles the hell’s end of a cigarette

that hisses goodbye, goodbye dear,

goodbye to all that in an ink blot.

I’m crossing old circuits.

Secret and serendipitous, but to the naked

eye, merely a site to hack a beery slash

in the navv hours… Supposed utopia

forsaken, the flip side

of a fast one—a fist, or life.

The graffiti curates obscenity

in water closets. The toes tap

epistles in a whore’s code.

The living history of silence

is counted in the vibratory instants

between chapel bells.

I’m held under suspension

bridges, holding breaths portentous

as gothic fog. I’m standing aside-eyed

at love, hovering around the urinals,

attuned to the signals: those fleeting gazes gone

to the eye-white narcissi of the neon—

And in a flash, I see men safe

in the palm of my hand,

and all our causeways come undone.

And in the bar, we text our muscled

apparitions while our want is numbered:

one more for the night, and then we swallow

the zero hour.

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