so I left. drove off for NY that morning of the high white end December sun

and it was cool. Indeed it was. And not in the good way. I cried for about 10 miles



then settled down. Into the drive. Finally in spitting snow the buildings and signs visible

on the West Side Highway looked like home.



I took the blue car to a parking garage on the upper west side I just happened to find

one of any. left the bags in the car and hied my 175 lb. ass up to the address my friend



Zee had given me. Spanish Harlem. Columbia side. no fucking sweat thanks to bill clinton and giuliani. and my friend Zee he of the fucked up Midwest late times America African American ethos.



and all that that entails. to you I mean to you.

fucking tiresome them times and yet it was a Specific Time



1998

2 days next to the first fucking day of that year



boy who got rich that year it wasn't me or millions else but

it might have been you if you were there fuck



yow now that I'm writing I'm remembering way too many details to suffice for a succinct and crunchy

little blog poem



but suffice to say that the whole initial time partially involved wood floors, sleeping on them, the constant TV feeling like it was somehow more significant, music,



smoking American Spirit Lights the light blue pack by the open window, bottled European beer, someone else's food



that they cooked, being surrounded suddenly by lots of homosexuality because my boy Zee was a switch hitter and his boy



who lived there just took the pitches. but I didn't care. I had other fish to fry.

like getting as drunk as possible. and seeking my time - ha. i would see the death



of yet another guitar

yeh like I said the fucked non-need of feasting emblazoned on something cold was them times oh



what litanies of drunken times and nights and cocaine yes and cigarettes and what a loneliness, crippling,

just like someone or two or 9 or how many more had told me it was going to be just like they told me



that place

would be