THIS WORLD AT THE
END OF THAT STRING
You have no need to move everything; it's all
in place for you. This guy is hungover already,
and I see him once more walking down Prince
and then Houston and then Mott. And, yes,
he gets around. Looks in windows where the
pretty girls play - those hair places mostly,
now high-fashion, like galleries used to be,
and all the art-girls have now turned into
style and fashion girls. All that fancy
clothing and 'the look.' They all want
to be. While always, next to them in
another store, the crum-shit Korean
ladies sit around begging to do nails.
Drunks? A dime a dozen here : William
Faulkner Thomas Wolfe Charles Bukowski
and Dylan Thomas, to just name a few.
Beer and vodka on Crosby Street. More
of the same at Joe Hill's. Public toilets,
or piss in the bushes.
This one guy gets out of the cab he's
driving; goes around back and throws out
his fares : two financial types, young, and
rolling in money. 'Get out of my cab! Stop
fucking in my cab! Fucking Americans I
hate you all!' He throws, they leave; as
the girl, turning back, says, 'I'm sorry sir,
I'm sorry my friend's a racist.'
You can't be standing under a twenty-five
watt bulb forever, crying your eyes out
over a world that never was.