Mayor of 42nd Street
somewhere there is a
90 minute cassette tape of
nebulous hobo poetry read
aloud from a moving 1949
Hudson Commodore Sedan
in the deepest, most tender
&
musical voice of
a pallid &
puckered hustler
who
jumped trains across the cosmic
spread of a stained republic
thieving endless marble skies
& small towns of aching beauty
his
was a galaxy of vilified vagrants
loose ladies & sad sailors
heroin hearts & beggars
junk-sick
surrealism
despite his disreputable pursuits
street slang and searing honesty
a boutonnière clung to his lapel
his manners
distinguished him
ecstasy was exile
illumination pithy
drunk
& happy
the Mayor of 42nd Street
an
exaggeration
of
beatnik blues
midnight
mouth
there are so many
footnotes to Howl
songs
of the damned
sound
on
42nd Street
this is a bad short story
about a rich bastard anti-hero
& his taxi suite counterparts
**
**
I came up to my writing room tonight with the best of writing intentions, I was excitedly distracted by a music conversation with my best girl. That led me to blanking on the title of a song I had a urgency to listen to. I sent a text to a friend who wasn't answering quick enough to quench that thirst so I went digging for it in a stack of old mixed CDs. I was 'supposed' to be finishing this poem but was seduced by a mountain of music I haven't heard in ages! I imported a slew into my iTunes. I soon had to discipline myself, put the books away and focus back on the page.
I haven't been sleeping well this week so I thought perhaps I'd move away from the TV and see if creativity could tire me. How silly! I'm wildly overtired and thirsty. I'm a weirdo.
One more song, maybe two. Then bed.
In propinquity,
Nic
