Essays, poems and comedy
Fat sits on a tray,
hosting burnt chicken.
Love was chubby beneath disdainful skin
and is now seeping uncontrollably
like a mother’s tears.
Eating only at noon,
I order goat cheese salad and heavy beer,
served by exotic waitresses
who are already rich.
They bow and slip the check under my plate.
Ella Fitzgerald’s heartbreak fills an empty cafe,
the jazz of love oddly happy,
stirring innocence in my coffee
as I embattle the smile of daylight.
My pen doesn’t work,
but this is my office.
Critics sigh as my un-showered hair glitters Eros,
a defiant mind.
Then 1997 stabbed 1968 in the back.
Every death betrays your birthday,
so East Village streets hurt poets
whose love affair with clarity
transcends human touch,
- A flyer from one of my shows in 1997.