Monday, April 7, 2014

5233. I GOT ALL THE HOOPLE, BUT NOT THE MONEY

I GOT ALL THE HOOPLE,
BUT NOT THE MONEY
Here, here, the land is ebbing and all 
the fierce epithets passing away. The 
way it is just is : Saccharin. Lindisfarne 
and the ancient radio waves of aliens. 
Now what to call it is all the rage : Internet,
television, consciousness, virtual reality or
Reality itself. You name it, I haven't a clue.
Instead I stay here writing. Instead I remain 
adrift among men but anchored within Truths -
messages entering cable'd and fable'd hallways,
girls I've met from Avenue B, the ones from
Stuy'town Village at the end of 14th; they tell
me their stories and I bow in restraint. Only my
old times keep me here : sitting bare-elbowed at
some fisherman's bar-joint, swilling rock-gut
whiskey while staring at gin, slurping beers and
pretzels like the Germans here never let out, or 
in. That's me, that's me. Another dress rehearsal
rag, with my face in the mirror staring back
at me. She talks like an elder lover but she's
as young as my heart can ever be. I'm watching 
the rise and fall of her breasts beneath some
almost-thin-enough fabric to see. Hmm, let me.
Outside, her dog  -  Joe Don Baker  -  sits
complacent on a soft pinkish leash with a
little metal clip. Only now, now do I realize
this whisper, speaking  -  like a mark from
some old Atlantic City dance hall with no
one left inside it to sway or dance, or say.
Here, here, the land is ebbing, and all
the fierce epithets are passing away.

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