Friday, January 15, 2016


The carapace is crawling over the 23rd street
hump. I knew him when he had a body. The 
Chelsea Hotel was a hideout we shared  - all
things whispered of conspiracies feared. That
woman, the second floor one, the really scary
one, she'd wail at you, and then want your
portrait. We teased her to death with your dick.
Those large photos you kept bringing down.
The cigarettes, in red holders, she smoked.
Now, so much of that is dead : she's long gone,
I heard, toes up in some Queens graveyard, 
painted now in stone, some wicked words 
above her head. 'I've withered, but grown. 
Had I only known.' What sort of epitaph is
that? Self written jingles where a
nice sadness would belong.
The stairway and the elevator, both, nothing
worked worth a shit  - stumbling, crawling,
crazed or high, you'd stumble back, if only to
cry, for an hour or more about something
imagined. There were teacups in your rafters.
That's what I used to say; just so as not to
have to say 'bats in your belfry.' What a
funny phrase to describe the insane.
What a funny phrase indeed.

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