9919. I'M CHOKED, AND YOU'RE MY SALAD

I'M CHOKED, AND 

YOU'RE MY SALAD

Heard that one down on Nassau Street, some girl

with her Summer skirt stuck in her butt. Endless

rows, it seems of food people, bragging about the

bugs on their natural lettuce. Not all it's cracked

up to be. Get it? Outside the library, the scroungers

still sit, and that Asian guy still sells his seaweed and

eel. Around the corner, the old chubby guy with the

frame shop is gone. I guess he finally retired. I can

remember him though, pretty well  -  nice to talk to,

but he did go on. Now I know the manager across the

street too, of the wine ship called something funny,

I forget. Ivy and Vine, or a name like that. I kind of 

give up with all the cute names. What is it abut 'culture'

which always heads in that direction?. Eight years ago,  

I can remember sitting with Paul Muldoon; he had a 

group of his students reciting their work, reading, 

not exactly reciting  -  a lot of it was OK in that 

undergrad sense : knowledge about everything and

nothing at all, opinionated garage drivel abut the 

Rights of Man in some broken iambic pentameter 

way. I myself was so full of shit, like it mattered. 

A snake in the ground looked better than me in 

my ivy isolation. Why didn't I scuttle it, and

just leave the container?