Paint Me Gold

Rival flowers
up at all hours
killing time and making plans—
hold out your hands.

Spilling out and
spiraling down,
fragile, cool, and clean.
Trust me.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.

Up at all hours
making plans for profit—
hold up your hands.

Trust me.
I say my prayers
although I don’t believe.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.

23 May 1990
Age 20

Let Him Die

He’s there on the sidewalk
lathered in his own shock
I’m surprised he can still talk,
pleading, “My love was not a lie!”

Let him die;
let him die.
You may ask me why
I want to let him die.

You see, just years ago
we used to have a show
called “Who Loves Who More
(and Who Won’t Try).”

I was such a newbie;
he knew I’d work for free.
He said, “Say goodnight, Gracie.”
I said goodnight to me.

So let him die.
Let him die.
You say let him try,
but if he doesn’t, let him die.
Yes, when he doesn’t, let him die.

When he’s laid out on the slab,
finally time to call a cab,
I’ll briefly lose my gift of gab—
my love was not a lie.

I’d love to stay, but I can’t;
Use my coat to prop his head, but let him die.
You can do what you want,
but I’m going to let him die.

16 January 1994
Age 23

[Note: This one goes out to the one with high ideals. You, perhaps?]

New York Makes Him Cry

Cut through the days
one after another,
possessed and deliberate,
thoughtless and cruel:

The boy, he wants to go;
the man, scared to know.

Rip into the night,
night after a long day—
depressed and deliberate:
lights and action.

The city, he loves it at random,
but in love, he must stay here now or never know;
he’s scared to know.

Up all night,
the city never sleeps,
but he sleeps in his city,
possessed and dreaming
of leaving
not just anyone.
The nightmare makes him cry,
thoughtless and cruel,
whisper calling out.

Loving the constants,
one keeps him from the other;
he would wait for none other.

The boy wants to go;
the whisper comes so slow;
the man is scared to know.

7 November 1989
Age 20