Letter From High Street #2

a posse of the young homeless drifts by
like the stench
of the lowest grade Mexican shit
an old hobo stands motionless all day
in the same spot
a clusterfuck of subhumanoid workers
gathers in a doorway
to smoke
and I mean sucking hard on those cigarettes
and leaving behind butts like puddles of cum
and shouting at each other
in bellowing mating calls
coeds undulate in waves of high-water booty
what passes for a businessman
walks by in huddled mongoloid isolation
the street is a cesspool
of racism, misogyny, substance abuse and
high illiteracy
instead of milkmen there are liquor trucks
instead of newspaper
there are unreadable monuments to the comatose

from my third floor rooms in the Garlow
I watch this sick carnivale
with an even sicker fascination
for I am only one of them after all
bound to putrefy and die
in this world of uncontrollable chaos
and 150 proof strangeness

all I can say is
savor this
it's Morgantown-specffic
and as real as five cars
running a red light
at the same time
just as you step out
into the crosswalk


in the surreal world
between dying and becoming a ghost
there is an endless series of echoes
all standing
in relation to each other
as if
paintings by Tanguy and Magritte
had merged
into a single breathtaking image
of a cold and erotic landscape
pure, unadorned abstraction

it is
in this place of nerves
my non-existent soul
its high fashion words into the day
and brings
the stanzas to completion
catwalks of mist and iron
the secret library
on whose back wall
I read these words

"why is that girl alone
 in the streets in the rain
 at 4am
 and what is she shouting
 into that horrible void
 of herself"

and later
completely different words have
appeared in stencil


this is my world
of drunken ghosts and the lost poetry
of Morgantown

I have vowed to salvage
for no
or rhyme
but to hear
these broken bells
with the sound of footsteps
the deserted sidewalks
and umimaginable town

 at close range
 point blank
 up close and personal
 from the Monongahela River
 to the back-end of Greenmont
 it gets me every time
 just like in the old Tuxedo Moon song
 "on any street corner
  it might slap you around
  on any street corner
  it might just be the same"
 but that was San Francisco
and the singer was theoretically Chinese and
is Morgantown and I am
conclusively Caucasian
and what was my point anyway
I ask myself
as I meander down pages and railtrails
only that
this thing I live in
life the word this town
is that same smacking up
as anywhere else
and trying
to find or make
a naked, uncliched beauty
the squalor of my brain
is all that I can do
hungover, the visions remain
the girl's shouting rings out
the graffiti glows in the lamplight

        images repeat themselves block after block.
 sound of high heels echoing in the icy dark.
        tuxedo moon kato hideki miles davis dna
        the poems of kenneth fearing and John wieners.
 smell of vomit in the doorway, pavements rise to meet
 me, slap me around.
        I watch snow falling hair falling tears falling
 existential urban angst hot drops of death liqueur.
        the sound of images surrounds me.
        how many shadows and doppelgangers
        in continuous motion
        dancing in strobe lights on the street
of drunks
        notebooks and turntables
        uggs and leggins
        cigarettes and cellphones
        the only thing left to do at Sam is scream
an endless munch scream
        into the concrete whirlpool of hard liquor
and noise
       sing the old cafe songs of theoretical
punk-surrealists all so romantic
       in the grit of the dead hours
       dizzy with saxophones and drum machines
       the smoke of baudelaire's barflowers drowning
       in the golden memories of time and times
in nightclubs and at dream-soirees.
       30 years later
       this sober Sunday morning before 5
       I am drunker than ever on the sound
of high heels
       echoing forever down the dark icy streets
of morgantown.