going to St. Mark's Poetry Project
for the mass Christmas reading
that all the poets partook of.
In the church I wrote a blues song
to show the other poets what I could
do with song form, new music.
New York City died last year.
Dead on her big stone feet,
no light bulb shed one tear.
how come you're still comin' round?
Historic reindeer flyin' the
Anyway, you North Pole people
Bring me a big mass transport
Garbage disposal system, too
Clean my po lice force so my
Boyfriends won't sniff so much glue
And I'll start giving presents
And thank you for coming in blue
Last year I thought I'll never leave
Year be fore brought up my vomit
I think I'll bring my beehive
Honey, oh honey, I know I'm makin' no sense,
forgive my anti -war grunts
this city stole my poetry pants
don't take too much heart dope
don't hang yourself with a rope
waving your horns at the wall
he'd better stay out there in the hall.
And then I went out after that
with my guitar -playing boyfriend
al young guitarists were doing,
in the basement on MacDougall Street,
among the amateur musicians
that were coming up and playing for free on
their loudspeaker sys tem
in the stone room basement downstairs.
and while we were waiting to go on and do a turn,
me and Gary, I wrote the next words.
wanted to be a minstrel man
I'm singin' the best that I can
Not yet, no Mr. Garbageman,
Not till I pick out a song
I tried singing out William Blake
I tried tuning out old Holy Blake
Now I'll sing him the blues
if good God gives me a break
guitars ringing all around
Screaming in the basement,
guitars ring me all around
I can only play three chords,
I can still will sing my way
I'm an old creep full of desire
It's because my heart is on fire
you could sing like an angel choir.