4245. IT"S OH MY GOD IT'S

IT'S OH MY GOD IT'S

The label said 'refurbished' and like most

things done anew it was probably good

as new and worth a few - I kept walking.

Past the stirrup holder held on purple display

posts; every cowboy Chelsea guy sweet

fantasy of cowboy revenge, that dancing

part to the mechanical bull and the

automated jerk-off machine together.

What else is there to say? 45 years ago,

it was, we'd walk past WestWorld, the old

gay palace pickup den of filth and sleaze

along Christopher and 12th Ave. A derelict

snot of a place along Weehawkin Avenue

where guys littered the stumps like

ass-condoms littered the street.

Long time ago, back then, and

not so very sweet. I was 17.

-

Some would say : there was meat to eat,

they were all very sweet, all those young

boys wanting flesh to be their take and

pay. Everyone sold their bodies for cash.

Money and coffee and food together.

-

When I was livid, I hid in the trucks. The

trucks once littered the old westside docks -

you could hide in one, sleep or fuck, live and

die, all together and no one would care. And

everyone used the docks back then to love

and meet and mingle. Different worlds? I'd

say. Two farther apart places - a cosmos

of this and a cosmos of that - I'd say.

-

We used to ride the word yet now they

say why write of this, why say? Everything

else is dark and purple too, and nowadays

anyways sex rules the roost - and bad

boys like this they toast to the news,

they toast to the new world today.