Unutterably Queer

Galumphing in a cab (sans shock absorbers)
through the sopping sloshing wet vicissitudes
of New York City concrete, streets, and other feats

and treats of excess and decrepitude, you prate
and prattle, rattle and create today’s confabulation
of the past: whomping to and fro and sideways,

slamming into the upholstery and knocking into
window glass, you make up stories that wake up
your appetite for just the right repast: a narrative –

declarative and speciously secure about the “facts” –
that builds another case (as if you needed one)
for why you couldn’t last a moment in another

place: oh, how you love its ugly petty pretty funky
lurid shameless dream continually meting out
the cream of why, and why again, you’re here!

Rolling, rocking past your favorite Chinese
take-out – oh, the city’s endless hot-and-sour
tautologies! – a taxi in a lumpen-stormy-rainy

August celebrates the rank ineffability of how
you know that life – up near, and down in its
imponderable rear – will always be unutterably queer.

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