They've mentioned that the great man died now
a hundred times and more - we've traced his long-line,
favorite clauses and causes too. His voice was as coarse
as it could be supple. Playing 'Jailhouse Rock' outside
the funeral home; that will accomplish nothing at all -
and, yeah, I wish I could stay but I can't. Tomorrow, the
world, but - how did Leonard Cohen put it - 'first
we take New York'? I'll be breezing there again by early
morning - past the underwear shops and the little art
museums now littering the over-active ground.
There used to be a place at First and 1st, funny, but that
was the address - a glass-fronted broadcast booth for some
local lower east-side radio station. They'd broadcast their
bullshit live; mostly useless stuff unless you were in the
know. From times gone by, and from people so-so. I'm
old now, and worst than adult; how much more can I care
about 'Punk'? What restitution have I for something that
wasn't even any good when it was new. The Ramones, and
CBGB's, Blondie and Patti Smith? Nah, I don't think so,
and God save the Queen anyway. Now there are hives
in Essex Market where everybody hangs instead.
One time, there were four or five of us, having pizza at some
nasty counter over by Orchard Street. It was way-late at night.
We were already shot to hell and our ears were ringing. People
milled about, but they weren't real - it was more like 'tomorrow's'
crowd that had just arrived, about 5 hours too soon. Suddenly, a
car came speeding around the corner, wild and crazy and out of
control. I didn't know what was going on, who was trying to drive,
or what the fuck was up. It jumped the curb, crashed the building,
scattered some people and hit some others. Blood red pizza. Blood
red pizza. The car came to a stop, embedded in some wall. The
driver never moved a stitch. I'd think he was dead before he
got started. Whoever was in that passenger seat, just got up,
jumped out, and ran off like fucking hell.