Let some sad trumpeter stand
on the empty streets at dawn
and blow a silver chorus to the
buildings of Times Square,
memorial of ten years, at 5 AM, with
the thin white moon just
above the green & grooking McGraw
Hill offices
a cop walks by, but he’s invisible
with his music
The Globe Hotel, Garver lay in
grey beds there and hunched his
back and cleaned his needles —
where I lay many nights on the nod
from his leftover bloody cottons
and dreamed of Blake’s voice talking —
I was lonely,
Garver’s dead in Mexico two years,
hotel’s vanished into a parking lot
And I’m back here — sitting on the streets
again —
The movies took our language, the
great red signs
Teen Age Nightmare
Hooligans of the Moon
But we were never nightmare
hooligans but seekers of
the blond nose for Truth
Some old men are still alive, but
the old Junkies are gone —
We are a legend, invisible but
legendary, as prophecied