on a tabletop in a back corner of the Bottom Line,
a sedate New York showcase club.
It's late Monday evening,
and I am watching an almost-somebody
female folk singer with a little-girl voice;
her tepid set culminates in a smirking cover
of David Bowie's "All the Young Dudes."
I have dozed off.
The bands and the comedians
are getting fidgety, having learned too late that
there's no smoking allowed in the club.
Only the two Matts feign interest,
their broad, smiling faces bright and wide-eyed.
It seems one of them took a hearty hotel nap,
and the other is stoned.
He's also got a mohawk shaped like a scrub brush.
Afterward, out on the sidewalk,
everybody agrees the show was perfect,
the weekend was wild.
In the damp, acrid New York summer air,
we head to John's Pizzeria,
a West Village landmark near Electric Lady studios,
where I straddle a cafeteria-style table,
quiet and sullen till multiple pies
(garlic and pepperoni) are washed down
with icy pitchers of Dr. Pepper.
Deciding to stick around for another Monday night,
I love and miss New York's energy,
but with the city also comes
an all-too-familiar sense of menace;
I've lost a lot of love and life in this city.
This past weekend alone, I hung with old friends on heroin,
rappers, writers, ex-lovers, waitresses.
My voice is gruffer and louder.
I'll leave tomorrow, early.
In my sphere of influence,
I have a huge ego with no self-esteem,
and the Hemingway idea of life is gone,
which is harder then moving,
but not harder than your house burning down.
I can't say my life is better,
but it stopped getting worse.
I was angry and holding onto anger,
like grabbing a hot coal with the intent
of throwing it at someone else;
you're the one that gets burned first.
The voice writing this poem
is a little bit smarter
than the guy
that broke the pencil.