St. Marks Place
There was a mad man on the loose and he twisted his way past the black spinning cube on Astor Place towards St. Mark’s….situating himself between the Starbucks and the now closed down Starbucks. Above him, thin white clouds were wilting away while below…faux Dolce sunglasses and pseudo punkers walked along the break your mother’s back cracked street….wallet chains rattling among the vintage clothing herders or the discount sushi swindlers. All is getting fishy for him as he makes his way in this Summer humid air as Bull McCabe’s releases its wafty stale beer smell and so 3 weeks sober becomes 3 minutes contemplating the yeasty thick concentration of damn where is his head at. He soldiers on amongst fallen soldiers and the WMDs he finds are in bombed out shelters of Manic Panic fallouts turned in to froyo red bean tabioca balls….click the two red sequined heels together no place like home emerald cities inside these Save Tibet insence Houses smoked out petchouli smell and all. A couple of skateboarders roll by and he gives the whats up head nod to them and the punker lip ringed Doc Martian who passes leaves her scent rolling for blocks and blocks and blocks sneering like Sid …..the vicious heat beating through his suit….cascade sweat down to his kneecaps. Tompkins square dog walk riots on the very end of this one way street with one way leftist leanings and he prefers the left side of the street and the left click of his shoe sounds louder a click a clack into the used book store to buy Evasion or some other red badge of courage socialist rag. But by the time he exits he’s just the guy in the suit…the suit that suit fingers pointed it’s you it’s you ruining this place that’s shambled into ruins once burned out cars now henna tattoos and udon long noodle slurps….maybe a karaoke tune falsetto high note into the beer soaked mic. No one gives a crap about Jovi or Journey it’s all about the journey of trying to squeeze a dollar out of a dime but nothing costs a dime anymore he’s seeing in these squeezed out faces hip hop blasting from the headphones. So G-G-G-G-G-G-G unit replaces GG Allin in the St. Mark’s Hotel and the madman realizes he’s incredibly old and there ain’t no country for him nor no anarchist block and as he rounds his way towards Astor again and passes the droves and droves of judging youngsters hell bent on leather he remembers that Bull McCabe’s is indeed still open….or Holiday Coctkail Lounge….or maybe over to Sing Sing to warm the ol’ vocal chords….or hell all of them……..just the old man wandering…Bud beer in hand…sipping and waitin’ on a friend.