“Tie Your Shoes, Frank”

(Old poetry of mine unearthed from a journal, circa 2007/8-ish, NYC)

Taking shots - you were at that Spanish bar,

Near the Flatiron, with all your friends

Shitfaced in a backyard - how it rained

Tuesday morning, grey over ashtrays

Soaked in piss, and bricked gardens -

In off-white denim overalls, ripped

Birkenstocks and knee-high socks;

Your eyes asked to spend the night

But would you please just hurry up -

I mean, like, this’s - in my abdomen

Somebody might’ve said it, when they -

Confessed a bit, splintered into pieces

Of vomit, kinda how candlewax drips,

But it still doesn’t make sense - are you cold

Again? So, if no, or no one’s home then - I guess

We’ll do it; I’m “worse than a virgin,” yet it’s jack

Shit, given three seconds later you just kissed

Him, on the mouth - go on ahead making out, I

Heard you say, “look down, and tie those fucking ugly

Ass shoes, Frank,” provincial, unconscionably direct

Blessing his neck till it wrapped around your hands,

And, hey - I’m trying to like, say hello…except, are you

In a Kashmir turtleneck? Yeah, sure - I’ll take a Kool

No but, you do you - “I’m steamed,” dejected he

Fighting for a cab, getting yelled at before I had

Passed him passed out atop brownstone steps

The next year, NYU sweatshirt and - cheap beer

My onyx eyes like a shark, but I liked Lara Bars

Translucent, though not transparent, maybe

Indecipherable - okay, right, but not invisible

And so, here’s to keeping sober

2008, but holy moly is this going to suck shit.

© 2022, A. M. D’Angelo