The Fall of 1992

An empire of moss,

          dead yellow, and carapace:

that was the season

          of gnats, amyl nitrate, and goddamn

rain; of the gator in the fake lake rolling

his silverish eyes;

          of vice; of Erotica,

          me have my way. And the gin-soaked dread

that an acronym was festering inside.

Love was a doorknob

          statement, a breakneck goodbye—

and the walk of shame

          without shame, the hair disheveled, curl

of Kools, and desolate birds like ampersands...

I re-did my face

          in the bar bathroom, above

the urinal trough.

          I liked it rough. From behind the stall,

Lady Pearl slurred the words: Don’t hold out for love.