øThe Usual BoothÓ
by E. Doyle-Gillespie
copyright 2000
Its like
Kerouac drowning in his apartment, or
Henry Miller following a whore down some blind alley or
James Baldwin listening for America
New York winter like lead shot burning
in my brain at midnight I am sitting in Christies with a
cafe latte, onion skin paper and ballpoint, crying
out ink for what feels like hours on this wooden table
that sports a gold plate inscribed
Allen Ginsberg
1955
So I must write about
jazz and doing junk through
big thick literary veins at night in Harlem
pink elephants and dew drops that crash like
thunder in my head
and the plates chorus
and the cap machine is giving out hiss and gurgle
and the women are coming in from the icy night
in black tights
in tight boots
and worn-through mens sweater
so I have to flip the page and write
about warm, wet drinking nights in
Hanover and Fain with willow branches
with hanging moss and drunken rounds of
Mack the Knife and you under a tree
with me, your legs spread in wide abandon
and there are five lesbians organizing at my left table
and the chess game is in college French at my right table
and the bearded man is preaching about race and power
and whether he or I can
claim god in the truest sense
so I write something for you
because you always did preach to me
to save my soul
to clean my head
to make my poetry into something of glass
And I wonder, are you still in Paris with him
teaching the liturgy
praying the rosary
and dreaming at night of New York
winter like a knife
