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.