14,155. NOT IN POCKET

NOT IN POCKET

I keep trying, keep trying.

On the corner of 9th, my

friend Jane Mary sells

flowers, and as I walk by

I say Hi! She's a lovely girl,

from Stuyvesant Town.

-

The locals, mostly the grim

blacks with their bottles

anyway, abuse her each day

with their scowls and ingratitude;

for being, for living, for having

a breath.

-

Almost every doorway has its

posters peeling : filth bulletins

from the first of never. Dead

bodies giving concerts, the

proto-punk bands slicing

their arms to make a song.

-

Nonchalance is a major here,

and, five blocks from NYU,

and five blocks from The

New School too, everyone

is flunking something.