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.
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