My friend drinks stolen gin
in Washington Square Park.
A dance-funk quintet plays
avid improvisation under the arch.
King Pleasure has left for Los Angeles
just as I have returned.
I smoke weed with the weirdos
and look for the hawk or her.
Saturday back in the city
ended with Jesse DJing a set at 96 Tears.
I watched him drink a few pints of Guinness
and felt no FOMO.
A new friend named Vinny made me aware
that Glen Matlock of the Sex Pistols was standing by us.
People associate me with punk rock and poetry;
never comedy and heart.
I start over
every day.
New York has all the iridescence
of the beginning of the world.