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Fuck you tonight Allen Ginsberg!
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Fuck you tonight Allen Ginsberg! I wander empty streets through the perilous New York Lower Eastside, looking for the majestic penumbras you celebrated with Whitman.
I’m tired of the dirty trashcans fallen over and throwing up their intestinal barrels, all for the sake of the bearded bums who ask my pesitos every time I stomp out the front door.
Don’t they realize I’m trying to pay my rent??
And sometimes I wonder where my friends from yesteryear are lying their heads on these rain-filled spring eves. Can there be some place other than New York? I’m stuck looking at hopeful fantasies of tomorrow and the policemen are scooping bodies out of the East River. How am I supposed to be hopeful?
Sometimes the world moves too fast; the clouds above my head are showing me something, yet I continue forward in malaise, thinking opportunity will present itself. Perhaps enlightenment comes when the ugly faces of strangers become beautiful.
I strolled through the high walled lobby of 80 5th Avenue, dressed inadequate among Armani threaded stand-talls speaking into plastic electronics. Doc Martins made me tall enough, I thought, that’s why I’d bought (didn’t steal) them with my bad credit.
Mama taught me to be polite--and polite I was. I walked up to the champaign table in the corner where a slick dressed blonde poured into plastic goblets, then fingered succulent cherries, verdant-vinegared olives, lithe links of sausage.
Wink, wink, even she knew what I was doing.
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Saturday, May 22, 1998
--Richard Aaron
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