he walks into our apartment,
kicks some cans
out of his way,
stares at the garbage
overflowing,
picks up a dead fern from
off the sill, sits it up right,
mumbles about some model
he was sure he could have,
and,
more importantly,
the lousty quality of the champagne,
laughs,
places the fern back down on its side
as it was before,
peers out the window
at the vacant lot below and
all the local evicted homeless squatting
in the burned out craters
at dawn,
then he sits down on the futon,
loosens his tie,
informs us he isn't going
to make it back
to his hotel,
not after a night
like this
(and thanks, brother, really, seriously, for real...thanks for hooking this shit up,)
unbuttons his collar,
leans back,
extends his belly,
closes his eyes,
mumbles:
"Sure glad I'm not an arteeeest,"
then passes out.
-Avenue A, New York City - 10/98
