Chinese Take Away

When heroin 
Was an easy buy 
On the Lower East Side 
We’d cop 
On a corner 
Or a bodega 
Or even a hole in the wall 
Of some 
Piss stained
Wasted torn building. 

There was an abundance of those. 

We called it Downtown Beirut. 

Ironically 
There was a bar 
Called just that 
In the East Village. 

After we scored 
We’d go back 
To your narrow railroad apartment 
And get high. 

Several hours later 
We’d head down 
To Chinatown 
To anonymous eateries. 

Some a few steps up. 
Some a few steps down. 

Small like living rooms. 

We’d order 
Take-out 
Randomly 
Off of a menu 
That we couldn’t understand 
And take it further 
Downtown 
To the foundation 
Of the Brooklyn Bridge 
And sit on top 
Of one of the burned out frames 
Of stolen cars 
Deposited there 
And watch the lights of neighboring Brooklyn 
And lonely passing boats 
On the East River
As heavy traffic passed overhead.

New York City 
As a whole 
Was chaos back then. 

Anything went 
And did 

As we pulled 
Unknown objects 
Out of cardboard containers 
And ate them 
Without hesitation. 

Only stopping to 
Hold something up 
For the other to see 
Commenting 

“What the fuck is this?” 

Before sticking the chopsticks 
In our mouths and chewing 
Something tender 
Or otherwise. 

Sometimes there were bones.

There were 
Many 
Skeletons 
Of dead cars 
Below 
The embankment 
From the street 
To the river. 

I always wondered 
How they got there. 

Some impossibly far 
From the concrete retaining wall. 

They couldn't have been driven there.

It appeared to me 
That no one 
Even cared that they were there. 

Unnoticed or forgotten. 

But they made 
A perfect picnic table 
At four in the morning. 

One time 
We saw people 
Partying 
High atop 
Of the Manhattan side 
Anchorage. 

Their figures 
Distant 
Defined shadows moving against the night. 

I could hear their radio
Playing hip hop.

I took another bite 
Chewing thoughtfully. 

I looked at you 
And said 
With certain clarity 

“Jesus. I could never do that.”

Ghosts From The Machine (Hypnosis)

A song of whispers 

Crawls 

Upon 

Timeworn railroad arteries 

From the paper speakers 

Of the shelf radio 

In the corner of the studio 

Effluvium 

In the early morning hours 

Not from waking up 

But instead 

From staying awake 

Painting

Multifarious stimuli 

A fresh eye 

Acoustic imaging 

The soulful chorus 

Of females 

Cooing doo wop 

Spells 

Behind a slow 

Deep register 

Male 

Crooning of lost love 

Dilaudid sultry 

Shifting into idle gear 

Voluble and articulate 

Hypnotic induction 

Such as a light 

In a revolving mirror 

Glinting 

Unlocking inner doors 

There is no transference 

Between my joints 

Pressure points immobile 

Gravity surfaced 

As I watch the oil paint 

Dry 

On canvas 

And hear the 

Phenomena 

Of ghosts 

Singing 

Arias 

Vestige 

Desiderata 

I did not even know

Moon Treatment

Weather permitting 

I can be found
In the backyard 

Reclined 

In a tattered lawn chair 

In boxers 

Or an old lover’s bathrobe 

Left behind 

Drink in hand 

Straight up 

Smoking a cheap cigar 

Connecting the dots 

With stars 

Divining new constellations 

And astrological symbols 

Coming to one with 

And accepting 

Welcoming
My inner genius 

With a warm congenial handshake 

People 

Family 

And especially neighbors 

Think I’m fucking 

Missed-the-boat 

Looney toons 

And perhaps I am 

But this moon therapy 

Is healing 

It’s playing a large part 

In my recovery 

My rejuvenation 

Sometimes 

I’ll bring the small transistor out 

And if I can point the antenna 

In the right direction 

I’ll hear all sorts of stuff 

While I sit there 

Breathing out cool air 

Sometimes classical 

Sometimes voices 

Sometimes peaceful static 

That bitch took everything 

I had 

Including my hair 

And now 

Several years later 

I’m healing 

In the moon’s nourishing light 

My hair is growing back 

Salt and pepper 

It’s as if 

Somebody poured bleach 

On all of the stars 

They’re so bright

Living Headless Woman Flowered Bonnet (1937)

Inside the auditorium 

Of one of the city’s 

Smaller theaters

Amongst 

A sizeable crowd 

For such an 

Off Broadway venue 

Professor Egon Heineman 

Had just finished his lecture 

On how he came about 

His latest oddity 

That he was momentarily about 

To expose 

As he had advertised. 

The Living Headless Woman. 

Soon to be unveiled 

Before our very eyes. 

He looked pleased. 

He began to pull back 

The heavy velvet curtain 

But it became stuck. 

A soft 

White feminine hand 

Came from behind 

Purposely 

To help him move the 

Fabric to the side. 

This revealed 

To the astonishment 

Of the audience 

A torso 

Of a woman 

With no head. 

A plate 

Upon her neck 

From which 

Four tubes 

Protruded 

Extending 

Into 

Visible tanks 

Providing her 

With the vital fluids 

To keep her alive. 

“Please warmly welcome Olga!” 

She criss crossed 

Her legs. 

“Are you nervous?” 

He asked. 

Professor Heineman 

Offered her 

A cigarette. 

“Would you like a smoke?” 

Then realizing 

His error 

He corrected himself 

And instead 

Posed 

“Pardon me.” 

“Perhaps you can light mine?” 

The torso’s legs moved again 

As her arm reached 

Forward 

To hold the butane lighter in his hand 

And light his cigarette 

Perfectly 

Without 

Any adjustment. 

A woman in the audience fainted 

Leaning into her partner. 

The chamber in which Olga sat 

Was eerily quiet 

Except for the bubbling tubes 

And vessels. 

The torso 

Nervously 

Tapped her fingers 

On the arms of the chair 

Or fidgeted her hands 

In her lap. 

She was well dressed 

And lovely 

In an evening gown 

And heels. 

She wore pearls 

Around her neck 

And more around her wrists. 

There were sparkling rings 

On several fingers 

Reflecting the golden light 

From within. 

It was easy to imagine 

That she was once from society 

Or a starlet of some sort. 

The body glowed 

There In the box 

As the professor 

Went on about statistics 

Of body temperature 

Diet 

Response 

Cardio... 

All in such a factual 

Scientific way 

That we wanted to believe 

What we saw before us 

Was real. 

Not bothered at all 

By the admission 

That we paid 

To get here. 

“Alas...” 

He exclaimed sadly 

As the curtains closed. 

“She very fondly misses champagne and dancing...” 

“To that my friends, we end this exhibition.” 

“Every day that you are alive, live well...” 

The house lights went on...