For the Cousin-Friend (the greatest friend of all)

We talk until the sky comes to life

again my cousin, my friend.

And though the lamppost hanging

through the shades outside the window

can trick me into believing the sun

has already vacated its ritual hiding,

you simply smile in the face

of our most certain deliquescence.

Damnation even--

an end that will come at the clawing

hands of public paranoia

and so many voided contingencies.

Let's sing a song cousin friend

can paint this hometown, this world a different

shade of dawn. A flavor not so sad perhaps?

Different from the yellow that douses

this city of lights--a creative moniker

worth acknowledging but filled with so much irony

it sometimes hurts--as we separate

ourselves from the building then dribble

down into the streets above or below.

The optimized market assurance

of that simpleton phrase pales

in comparison to what we have going on

in our imaginatively conjoined foreskulls

as we sift through downtown

with the coffee-livened creepers

and get a real sense of everything

we miss out on each time life

comes between us.

Then it's only the big man feeling

of the wet dawn haunt, the silent

victory of another conquered vantage,

the simultaneous shudder coming over us

when shopfront mannequins in cloying

dresses our absent ladies would depise

assure us that we can still fantasize.