these tribute nights

Just got off the train,
eating a goddamn Gluten-free
oatmeal blueberry muffin
and feeling manly.

Bleecker and Bowery,
Lawrence Ferlinghetti at the Yippie.
and I’m getting ready to leave NYC,
maybe for good, or ill.

These walls, these people,
like a weird old asylum.
This is my number.

Curved ceiling,
atages, odd adorable,
up and down,
capitol Poets and odd smells.

Too luminous,
these people are ghosts,
real ghosts.

This is where people read
bags of skin
through beards;
No booze.

Some guy is paying for a latte with nickels.

These people are dead again.
Abby Hoffman would be furious.
I hear cats.
Seriously, cats, coming from the basement.
They are furious too.
And sad.
And singing.

Franco showed up,
but I don’t remember inviting him.
Oh well,
welcome to my world,
Garfield Twists.

Why’d that guy call me Richard?

Some old dude called me Richard and shook his finger at Franco.
Why do old dudes always have bad breath?

Born gone,
She came
just to see me read,
and then she left.

And I watched her walk past the big front window
in a red canvas coat.