from American Deadness
New York City Serenade
She stood on the roof of a tall building.
It was a cold night, she was bundled in
a leather coat over two sweaters. She
looked out over Central Park, and, to
her right, the Upper West Side. Here’s
the deal, she told herself: if I jump, I’ll
go after him as soon as I hit. It’ll take
me three months to hit, by which time
I’ll have the whole thing planned. I was
in bed as I heard her thinking this. My
brain was Swiss cheese. I was on pills.
Out Here in Albany
I never take my brains to work. My
cubicle is like all the others. I wait
each day for the blonde with the big
bust to come peer over my shoulder
at my Facebook page. We have a
mutual acquaintance. She is sizing
him up to possibly have an affair
with. Why should she, or anyone,
care about me?
Oh, these Albany
nights. You can see glitter like in
Paris anywhere. My wife is also
sizing up contenders. I see her
doing it at Ruby Tuesday’s. As
for me, I’m off the market. It’s
a nice, adult feeling. Underneath,
I do care about me. And Albany
death wounds like no other, with
lethargy; scum of the heart of
America. America: a cubicle.
That’s my America: just blue.
First things first: she can’t hook up. Or, it
isn’t just that she can’t hook up; her body
is useful to her only as a kind of blade, to
cut through tender surfaces around her. If
you see her in South Philly (spring midnight,
let’s say), she will be with a guy set in place
to produce an appearance. Don’t buy it.
She has a station wagon her parents bought
her. She’d rather go without heat than gas.
If she jingles her keys in your face, it’s to
tell you one thing: you are my underling.
I couldn’t care less anymore. Broad Street
is full of these blades. They nurture their
own dull obsolescence with every hesitant
denial. As for Dana, I heard she’s now in
the process of entering a drug ring. They
all think it’ll be an easy hook up for them:
an airheaded blonde on her back in five
minutes. I know otherwise. She’s had me
on my back for three years. But my surface
isn’t so tender anymore. I want to last.
She Don’t Like, She Don’t Like, She Don’t Like
This isn’t Stevie Nicks: she’s doesn’t blow
blow up her ass. She just sits up all night
with the TV on, razors & mirrors there.
She claimed to me she can communicate
with alien beings through TV images: that
extra terrestrials use colors, forms to come
through, bequeath eternal wisdom upon her,
like this: the universe is a harsh place for
the human race. We are beset by forces, rigs,
all things beyond our control. Her rig keeps
pushing her down into total disbelief in every
thing. E.T. did happen in Los Angeles, after
all. If you can see stars from the Hills, she can’t.
You can’t be one and see one at the same time.
How shall I say this: you haven’t lived until you’ve
watched TV the way she does. It beats everything.
It makes the universe livable. And when the sun
comes up, if you want to die, tough shit, jack.