TWELVE
i’m tempted at times to turn myself in.
own up to the fact that i’m simply not cut out for this kind of living;
bus my ass out to the psyche-ward to get rewired.
maybe then i’ll be more accepting of this city with its wasted lights.
when i come home i’ll fly my flag.
i’ll proudly wear my super-low-rise denim jeans
with my playboy baby-t.
i’ll burn all my books and turn on MTV.the sun goes down a little earlier each day,
but still fluorescence and neon blot out the constellations.
i shouldn’t have to buy a news paper to see the stars.if i lose twenty pounds and go out shopping on fifth avenue
maybe i’ll fit in a little better walking home at night.
maybe then it won’t be disorderly conduct for me to sit outside tompkins square park and read. the boys in blue inform me of what kind of shit hole i’d be living in without them; while they played cops and robbers in their long island back yards, i was pretending to be a mad scientist with the hypodermic needles i found in the sand box.i tell them, “frankly, it isn’t me you were sent here to protect, it’s the rich kids who’ve hiked up our rent, and they’ve got good reason to be scared walking home alone at night.”
“move along,” they say, “or we’ll write you a summons.”
i take my books and wander off, wondering where i am.