Thirty is a Round Number

(for Gabriel Don)

30 is a round number dispossessing its righteous owner becoming desperate
Body half-centered from days when you ran in circles, groupies thumb and fist
Concupiscent charlatans, art thieves who fashion themselves after gangsta poets
Modern day messiahs tripping on psycho semantics, moo shoo lunch specials
Who done what with whom, call it distribution of postmodern feminist literature
No more gossips about suicidal goons, lost boys from the borough of beat down
Come Casanova, come King Cobra walk your diamond girl through shyster bars
Uber cars carrying her to the land of misbegotten lives, she slays dragons dead
Pen for sword word for word, this is a countryside where angels fear to thread
Literary mamita carrier of the essence of a neurotic gene, December’s demoiselle
Danced among barbarians at the lounges and after hours in the Lower East Side
Freedom fighters followed you, semiotic soldier boys born on the saddest day
Dressed in suits and sandals, posed like Svengalis, romantic artisans, triple threats
This day when yesterday’s rabble-rousers hide inside air conditioned catacombs
In the arms of matrimony you are safe, ongoing gender warfare, ego bashing
Midnight mothers cradling their drunken lovers at all night orgies underground
Thousand voices thirst, is it wine that crosses their lips, do you offer them breath
Christina the restless possess us now through your sensations and transcendences
We have come to redeem ourselves, get lost in the magic of remembrances
A life once lived as hoodoo poetess; we watch as you levitate, circling the room