East Village

First night in NYC,
the village of Ginsberg, Kerouac, et. al.,
the Beats…
I wonder where the apartment
is, where Hunck stored his stolen goods?
My friend, Bill, faced with pain
the rest of his life, just told me of our
mutual friend, Larry, who just found out
he’s dying of cancer… what a bitch…
meanwhile the streets
are filled with the yuppified hordes on
a Friday night.
I said “Fuck You!” to the first New Yorker
I saw as I got off the bus from Vermont,
as a fraternal greeting…he smiled knowingly.

The apartment I’m staying in is small,
like a hall between rooms, converted into a
living space….might as well be in Tokyo.

Civilization has become a lie to me,
but, funny, if you can get the joke.

Central Park, MOMA, my niece in Brooklyn
are what I want to see…the NYC icons for me.

I’ve seceded, in spite of the Union of Pretense
which characterizes this false age.

The Age of Reason failed precisely
because it couldn’t take a joke.
The Fool….Wisdom…lost in a flurry
of Pulpits.

Painfully, excruciatingly clear…
OMG…don’t you see?
NO!



You can’t bear to look…
because you’re smart enough
to know you will see.

So, we mostly go on,
as if nothing had happened…
looking for excuses for our
hypochondriac symptoms…
parodies of a parody of life.