falling out of the pew like
a stumbling drunk
some bum
some parasite
listening to Tony Coca-Cola
and the Roosters
sifting through crowds
of hairspray and leather
eyeliner and steel spikes
it looks like your cord’s too short
and the tool is not your own
it’s too loud here
and the buffalo roam
through the night of
unforgiving New York
and every face
on every street
is your own
what is art if not rejection
and you need that news
like you need a hole in the head
so all that’s left
is to get back to bed