C O F F E E
S H O P
I'm sitting at an outdoor coffee shop in the Village, N.Y.C. having achieved good show status last nite. I feel free to recover from my hangover in relative peace. I BELONG HERE, on St. Mark's Ave., on this very spot, feeling the 3-D energy surround me. It's all beautiful and nobody feels shitty. All the girls are gorgeous, they all have REAL tits, nice fleshy pillows scarcely hidden under tight sweaters;
they are gods.
I met Ivana Trump last nite at our show, OUR show. I'm flattered that the Queen of Money was gracious enuf to attend. Did she watch? I think not. I can't picture her in push-up bra and torn black stockings, shaking her fake tits and yelling my name. I'd like to see that, though. I fantasize about her taking me up to her suite at Trump Tower, the gilded elevator ticking off the
numbers...81...82... 83...all the way up to the top, the penthouse. Me, drunk and slovenly, her,elderly but eager to please, eager to show me that she's NOT all
about money. We enter, butler takes my hat and coat, we go to the bar-
"What'll you have?" she asks coyly, with a flip of her hair.
"Everything," I say.
We laugh. My jokes are on, my shit is on tonite. she hands me my drink in a Godzilla cup and kneels down… Fuck...this fantasy is going nowhere. I've got
about as much chance of fucking a Trump, either Ivana or Ivanka, than I do hitting the Big Apple on the head with my chrome-plated nipple ring.
I encountered several of the girls I used to fuck last nite at the show. I lived in N.Y. for one summer in '91, you see, and apparently I fucked most of the female population, dogs, cats, squirrels, bag ladies, you name it. Anyway, seven years have not been kind to these ladies of the evening, the all-niters have left their mark on their once porcelain complexions. They give me their phone numbers as if no time has gone by, as if I'm back on
Headbangers Ball again, not just passing thru like a moth. Sorry darling, this moth must fly, fly to stay immortal. I can't rest or I'll turn into y'all, the desperate, the dark, clinging to you like film noir-
I sit here, on a chair under a red umbrella, stylishly un-stylish, watching people go by-Oriental girls, beautiful little goddesses, black men dressed so well, with-it
girls, skinny and smoking, two old men sharing an iced coffee, talking about the
good old days, reminiscing. Here comes a bag person, dignified and solemn as he pulls his little cart/home. Even the fat girls here have a beauty, I could fuck one
NOW, rite here on my little coffee table. Student, dictionary and notebook open, two empty coffee cups, pencils, ashtray. What is she learning? What have I learned.
Everyone here in New York looks like they have a PURPOSE, they all look like they're GOING somewhere, be it the top of the stock market or Radio City. Ballet dancers, clustered around a table, stupidly beautiful, they look at me and giggle, me, dressed in the same clothes I slept in, trying to string sentences together. Their energy makes me happy to be alive, what they want is what we all want but they want it TODAY...I smile, I love them. I'd love for just one day to be like them. 17, 17 and not fucked up on drugs or jaded. A clear conscience and a passion to dance...wow, a foolish dream, but any more foolish than stink-buggering Ivana Trump? I guess not-
I say this often, I know, but as I sit here I want to capture this moment, this time, this day, and I want to keep it forever, not just for today, but for all time.
I want this power to solve all of my riddles, you, gorgeous woman dressed in hundred-dollar shoes, tilt your sunglasses down a bit and look at me. ME, I'm rite here, hungry for you, your knowledge, your wit, your cunt, your everything, let's walk a bit down St. Mark's a bit, look at the book stalls, laugh about a book we've both read, hold hands, dream about our future, talk to the gods, cling to each other in the dark, your
hair and mine matted and wet, you shout my name, you arch your back like a ballet dancer, like a swan, the fuck never ends, the sun and moon all make sense, the love is everything, the idea, the notion, the glorious gorgeous POWER of it all...
Stop...jump back, close your notebook, get real, walk back to the bus, get in, think about your next meal, your next show. Mother Earth...I ask you, can reality compete with what I feel in my head rite now? It fucking can't...