2089. NEXT DOOR TO HELL

NEXT DOOR TO HELL

(23rd street, 1972)

Next door to Hell at the Chelsea Hotel,

I was standing with my foot at the curb.

Just behind me, McMaster and Jermine, the

two jerks with the Beatleboard, kept yelling

out songs. The Quixote, alongside them, had

drunks going in and out. It seemed always like

this - a whiteout of shame and a blackout of sense.

-

I never entered without my Mabou Mines elixir:

gasoline in a jug and two donuts to boot. People

looked around, but without even of modicum of

good sense, no one was ever able to connect the

dots. Ogden Nash and his turltedove, James

McNeil and his sister Pearl. My hands were

dotted with fever. Blisters on the soles of

my feet. Outside the paint store, by the fish-bait

and tackle, a dark green police car, it seemed,

was always posted with 1972 eyes. The two guys

inside seemed always, just always, staring out.