'97, '87 & '79
|
The first time jeez
I was five in Davy Eggy's tent
when I gave him a hot, panicky peek, but the second show
didn't start until I was twenty or so doing chocolate
mescaline on a runway or pool table somewhere, angry
because they'd egged me on, even if it was my idea -
and no bar would have me on the strip, my lunacy
wasn't in then, but when it was, I heard tell of a time
I sailed a black florescent tube towards the bar,
not to injure but to shock them into knowing how I felt
and I'm barred again. Again.So I went to Atlanta
to shake it on Peachtree Street
in pasties that were actually Band-Aids because I'm on
a shoestring and junk besides, but getting paid now
though bedpan disgusted with bullshitting fans -
but not with those glorious black & white glossies of me
and Diane or Dee or Whatever and that bareassed guy
on all fours in a black tophat, gray gloves, on whose back
we placed a foot, raised snarling fists, machete knives,
wore only heavy chains fashioned like banditos wearing
bullet belts in the movies, a statement classic enough
to shame Honey, who would propel her tassels to Christmas
carols, but not always angry were naked days:
like the fourth of July
I wore just a flag, riding a ten-speed
on the corner for my grinning friends, flashing cars;
or mooning a birthday, or wearing just a sequined pasty
on my nose for an old flame reunited, or just showing
my ass with my Canadian duck punch-line, but I don't enjoy
dope so much anymore, and I'm not so angry - not even
at myself, and getting naked is not all it's cracked up to be,
so don't make me read this poem. |
