I am a golden child,
the fortunate fool,
and every mother’s nightmare.
I garner pieces of the city
best savored with a broken heart,
and claim it in the name of the poets,
hooligans
and vagabonds.
The rampage of night
crushes pedagogic endeavors
of my nonpareil mania.
I’ve gone and squandered my good graces
to kiss the lips of the pretty faces,
now November nights
bedevil my ragged breath.
Turpentine and motel matchbooks
strewn across my mind like broken glass,
I exhale the madness
and go to sleep at last.
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