last night i dreamt that i was you.
i was dressed all in black with dark glasses
and attitude. such a pose i could simply not
hold through days in a northern town that
i had once called a home. your studies for
fringe new york streets: i was reading the
pavement in every work you would speak.
to a "brownstone up three flights of stairs"
and it's on...
buying drinks for the poets upstate, this
southern corrupting towed you down the
interstate, and they all said that you
were the king of gloomy disruption that
surfaced when you would speak. this
town simply cannot compete so i'm
packing my Bullets and Silverstones and
heading east to a "brownstone up three
flights of stairs" and it's on...
if i could have (had) my way this year
would bridge '66 (again?)
trust fund hipsters were casing the room
chock full of amphetamines. the
overturned kick drum book set the pace
with incomparable cool.
and if the tempo was lousy it was lost
on all but you...