for Robert Maril
It's 100 degrees in New York City,
and the only thing that can save you,
is the insane sparkling explosion of
Dr. Brown's Black Cherry Soda
on your tongue, like the future's version
of what a cherry used to taste like,
before the absence of bees
eliminated them not only from our mouths
but from our memory.
Then a stranger, a boy with cutoff jeans
and a string of red plastic beads says,
"Where is fashion in a time like this?"
--Acidic light, laid over the walls and floors
like a bright blanket of paisley laser beams.
--You holding onto me, attaching yourself,
saying, "This nightlife,"letting the idea hold in the air.
--Then, "I can't do this anymore."