Night’s dull aftertaste. The ambiguities of dawn.
Always he was torn between such phrasing and:
He woke cottonmouthed and was of two minds
about rising and swigging some juice.
What clothes to wear to the Fancy Dress Ball?
What statement to make?
He had declined for so long, it might be time
to lace up his sneakers, rent a cummerbund.
One night at a French restaurant in New York,
he felt so out of place
he wanted to say, Bring me some brains,
chicken parts, the insides of a lamb.
And yet the French for anything
velveted his tongue.
To have any chance at a good life-
a friend once said in a letter-
you have to keep saying abracadabra
even though nothing happens.
You have to wander the malodorous hallways
of third-rate hotels, dreaming of angels.
Abracadabra. Malodorous. To have such options.
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