makes game of choice sits in cold piss with sticky hands   watching morning crawl the bottom blue   gases and message tickle written on his back   protests azeida says or says or natalie or something   oh if these cold feet could only    the warbling coo of unseen pigeons   smell of creeks and south street steakhouse   either neithers surround me   who can say how any more?   and how can say why?   it’s beginning to get to be a bit too late to name this