Stroked me from crown to neck nape—

Sat across from me on the subway and gazed at me lovingly—

II

They were whispering, elbows leaned on the wide marble balustrade

balcony lobby of the Majestic Theater—

talking Jerusalem, Moscow, Ballet, Quasars, Interest rates—

John came down from his seat, stopped at the top stair—

sat down, hands on his ears in despair—“I’ve stymied my feet!”

“What” they asked, “you’ve stymied your feet? Whazzat mean?”

John nodded his head, eyes closed, hands against his head as before,

“I’ve stymied my feet,” he repeated dolefully.

III

John had AIDS.

First, he began talking to himself.

The psychiatrist said:

“If you’re going to talk to yourself,

do it in the form of poetry.”

November 7, 1991, 8:30 A.M.

A Thief Stole This Poem

These days steal everything

People steal your wallet, your watch

Break into your car steal your radio suitcase

Break in your house, your Sony Hi 8 your CD VCR Olympus XA

People steal your life, catch you on the street & steal your head off

Steal your sneakers in the toilet

Steal your love, mug your boyfriend rape your grandmother on the subway

Junkies steal your heart for medicine, they steal your credibility gap over the radio

Cokeheads & blackmen steal your comfort, peace of mind walking Avenue A your laundry package

steal your spirit, you gotta worry

Puerto Ricans steal white skin from your face

Wasps steal your planet for junk bonds, Jews steal your Nobodaddy and leave their dirty God in your bed

Arabs steal your pecker & you steal their oil

Everybody’s stealing from everyone else, time sex wristwatch money

Steal your sleep 6 A.M. Garbage Trucks boomboxes sirens loud arguments hydrogen bombs

steal your universe.

December 19, 1991, 8:15 A.M.

Lunchtime

Birds chirp in the brick backyard Radio

piano chopping gentle chords next door

A rush of tires & car exhaust on 14th Street

Delighted to be alive this cloudy Thursday

February window open at the kitchen table,

Senior Citizen ready for next week’s angiogram.

February 20, 1992, 1:15 P.M.

Deadline Dragon Comix

After Lalon

I

It’s true I got caught in

                    the world

When I was young Blake

          tipped me off

Other teachers followed:

Better prepare for Death

Don’t get entangled with

          possessions

That was when I was young,

          I was warned

Now I’m a Senior Citizen

and stuck with a million

          books

a million thoughts a million

               dollars a million

                    loves

How’ll I ever leave my body?

Allen Ginsberg says, I’m

          really up shits creek

II

I sat at the foot of a

               Lover

     and he told me everything

Fuck off, 23 skidoo,

          watch your ass,

          watch your step

exercise, meditate, think

          of your temper—

Now I’m an old man and

          I won’t live another

20 years maybe not another

          20 weeks,

maybe the next second I’ll

          be carried off to

                    rebirth

     the worm farm, maybe it’s

          already happened—

How should I know, says

          Allen Ginsberg

Maybe I’ve been dreaming

               all along—

III

It’s 2 A.M. and I got to

          get up early

and taxi 20 miles to satisfy

          my ambition—

How’d I get into this fix,

this workaholic show

     biz meditation market?

If I had a soul I sold it

     for pretty words

If I had a body I used

     it up spurting my essence

If I had a mind it got

     covered with Love—

If I had a spirit I forgot

     when I was breathing

If I had speech it was

     all a boast

If I had desire it went

     out my anus

If I had ambitions to

     be liberated

how’d I get into this

          wrinkled person?

With pretty words, Love essences,

          breathing boasts, anal

          longings, famous crimes?

What a mess I am, Allen Ginsberg.

IV

Sleepless I stay up &