From Hinge Online '03

Hamlet On Pine Street

A hammered elder took me aside: "Try your skill on each girl; hone, develop your skill; but prepare yourself for solitude 
nonetheless. Never let your eyes linger longer than a minute." 
Petty Polonius 

left me leeching cigarettes outside Dirty Frank's.
Ophelia, beer-breath'd, bleary-eyed, laid a cadaverous 
hand on my lap, plummeted into streams of Scotch- 
good night, sweet lady, good night. Leeches 

lingered on our exit; jealous teeth, yellowed of nicotine. 
Gentle Rosencrantz tried to turn a trick; Guildenstern 
did a monkey-dance. The reign of despair 

consolidated itself with the arrival of battered 
Gertrude. The night wasted away; my fortunes 
waned outrageously.


Technician Of Tough Love
Puzzling your way back to nothingness 
you must be; if the Void is an abyss, 
to conquer it in life is impossible. 
There is a blessing in ritual, 
but it is all on this side. 

Your private treasures I never knew; 
beyond the Indian drums (of which you had 
a collection), was there something, 
some book, some record, you prized 
above all others? 

You were a technician of tough love, 
collected hearts; had a passion 
for Chinese herbs boiled down 
to the root, to retrieve essential, 
healing strength; 

ministered weary angels 
needing succor, familiar w/ your tongue, 
your breath, the beating of your heart. 
Saintly, to feed some soul's need 
for flesh, nectar, sanctuary, 
oblivion; 

now its death's mystery 
from which you can't escape- 
maybe. I profess & confess 
utter bewilderment. 

Remember lunches 
at Essene, 4th Street, the crutch 
of good caffeinated coffee, conversation, 
a few hours rest; was eternity 
there, watching you, waiting silently 
to bear naked flanks 
to your moribund pleasure? 
Who can tell what world 
will fit a restless spirit well?