We drank down the moon and swallowed the stars,
like Great Kronos eating his children.
We sat amidst smoke-filled Tribecan bars,
and talked about Pinter and Wilson.
We stumbled through night to the hum of the street
pealing, painting in synesthetic choirs.
We braced ourselves against the stained walls of bars
and puked up the bile of liars.
We talked about truths that we never could grasp
and ignored the falsehoods before us.
We listened as drunks' and hookers' three-toothed rasps
grew atonal and dimmed out the chorus.
We laughed with ecstasy, the superior crowd.
"It figures!" "They don't even get it!"
We closed ranks within; the noise grew to a din. A rattling gasp
went unheard and unsweated.
And after the vodka and MDMA,
we woke in the dawn to an Upper West day
as a close friend floated facedown in the bay.