like it's 2009
when Matt English texts me
letting me know
John Mayall had died.
So I read a poem
for Matt English
because we used to get drunk
and smoke hand-rolled cigs
while listening to the Beano album
with Clapton coming in hot.
Scary 4am walks to the train
in Harlem were some
of the best mornings of my life;
I loved being young and dumb,
afraid of everything,
but scared of nothing.
I walk past The Chelsea Hotel
and like to pretend
that some of its creative energies
rubbed off on me.
We were animals
of the East River,
the West Village,
Spanish Harlem, etc,
and now I feel like
I am just going
to the nostalgic night zoo.