Flo was always throwing me out. The last time she told me to get out and stay out of our apartment on Grand Street, in Brooklyn, I had keys to Richard’s place in the city. She acted like she’d been tricked. She accused me of contriving to be thrown out. I took a brown bag of workclothes. Richard’s building smelled like bug spray. It was known as the Poets’ Building. Ginsberg lived on three, Rene Ricard had burned out his place on four, John Godfrey was sequestered above. Simon Pettet, Greg Masters. And Richard. There were discarded clothes and books and magazines on the landings. I tried on a short wool coat, brown plaid. Richard’s Christmas tree was still up in March. He was in Paris for a month. I tossed my bag on the couch and checked the fridge for a beer. There wasn’t one. So I sat beside the bag in my new plaid coat. Kitty says something. We’re on the Bay Bridge. There’s a textured shine on the water. Betray someone and you cast your lot with anarchy.
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Friday night at Richard’s the radiators were coming to life. I ran water in the sink and moved around in the corroded mirror, rinsing my face, searching for a towel. There was a sensation of stepping out, in Manhattan. You don’t get that in Brooklyn. Of rejoining humanity, slipping into the current. History’s now and you’re it.
I walked down to the coke store on 4th Street. These streets were meant to be seen at night. It was the Lower East Side I’d always known, the standard dream of New York, furnace-lit, sinister. At night it all looked post-Halloween. Someone’s kitchen light went on. It was trippy, springing up one footstep ahead of me, as though I were creating it . . .
In San Francisco a wind comes up against the windows, punctuated by rain. I go out for cigarettes. There’s always another trip to the corner. Through the little gate. What do I mean on the street tonight? London/Cleveland/New York exist between each bootstep in San Francisco. As other loves exist in the interstices of this one. What I call love, marriage, reality, the present—me—are just vibrations.
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It’s late now, and the draft under the window comes from Cleveland or London or Brooklyn, wherever. From the universe. You feel it in your bones. Now’s the same as always, and all the different pasts coexist with the present. Like a quiet river . . . where opposing soldiers venture out of the woods . . . hungry and bored . . . and call across to each other . . . exchange jokes . . . gossip . . . tobacco . . . The living and the dead are just two sides of an idea.
Join Howl! on Wednesday, April 13, 2016, 7pm for a FREE event. The Sparkle Street Social & Athletic Club: A Series of Readings Curated by Mike DeCapite.
