Saturday, December 12, 2009

For the sake of idenity/this elemental life never happened

  • Over there at the Westbury Music Fair/ you had the distinct opportunity to smell Goldie Hawn /she was tall/you had a girlfriend who the guy who I dissed till he took a bride from the Harmon Family happened to be in love with her and he could not understand anything/how he coming from the Ted Mack Camp could be rejected by first me and then your girl. Some folks ju
    want people who aren't attracted to them. And so the story goes that in the ghett where we reside/a parcel of words creates an identity all its' own/you find yourself uptight/a broke dick dog/ and the closest item to scratch your fancy and wail out at is an old matchbook with a few words on it in pencil/strong and defined like a treatises/and the the memory game/I'll play till the death/who do you remember my feathers perking uo at/a watchful eye/an inclement strike at identity without money/the kind where you have a penthouse on Park Avenue/with red velvet chairs and a piano in the dining room/overlooking Central Park. Our scratchpad overlooks Barnabas Hospital/the firewagons screetch beneath our window/and we bead rose petals before dawn with the black sky and a sliver of blue over Inwood,it is this crystal bead which feeds my day/Arthur Avenue with Gepetto standing on the corner in his fur hat shaking his head the way so many elders who have encountered the artists have in their glorydays.