fellas

fellas

Across the street from Washington Square, a stoop
littered with burst butts, torn leaves, dead
bugs, things we could kill or rip apart, girls
waiting, pretending not to wait, drinking beers,
pinkies and eyebrows raised, waiting for us–
for us, it was a summer of much fucking

back when boys were angry kings of fucking,
fighting, getting drunk, the order of the stoop
set in brownstone between us, sworn among us
night and night again, saluted in the dead
of drunk summer, soaking christened with beers,
wrestled into bare hugs, homos, scoffed the girls

there was the fellas and then there was the girls
the fellettes, or fellatios, if they were fucking
and they were always fucking, after a couple beers,
there was the girls, defaulting at our feet on the stoop
all other August possibilities exhausted or dead,
the girls fell tough, always trying to outdrink us

in dead end games, the solace of stupor, relief to us
thin and whistling, the high sound of girls
singing the summer radio like ether, like ron was dead
coming back from the beach leaned out the fucking
C train window, look ma, no head, stupid
accidents, boys being boys, too much lsd and beers

squinting at the dregs of our pints and beers,
something hurtling early towards death made us
crave breaking glass, splinter empties against the stoop,
saw us break each others noses over girls
we all closed our eyes while fucking,
got fucked up, and graduated into the dead

together endured the friendship of the dead
wait of summer after high schoolm passing beers
and time, like the stupid music of dumb fucking,
slowed to a tocking throb, a pounding around us
dull late into the night, our arms around the girls
we sat stock still against the earth turning, did not fall forward off the stoop

o fuck bring me back now to the stoop of the dead
altar of boys, where the girls were brilliant sluts drinking sweet beers,
toasting us, & waiting to get on with the fucking

(1993)