polishing a literary work is like
using potholes for hotplates
on the road I write constantly
about trying to hibernate in muggy weather
there is no one to scratch my back
or correct my spelling mistakes
I was drunk with Carlo in Midtown
(cab $5.00)
manic in a Chelsea boutique with Billy
(antique lamp $240)
and elevated (oh so high) in Manhattan
all by myself in a bloom of faces that fit
(priceless)
I had a jazz dream (oh boy did I dream)
buying a pretzel in front of a deli in Queens
I wanted to smoke
dance
prance
trance
one last chance on the freeway
one last dance on the midway
one last prance on the runway
one last trance on the dancefloor
before
the contour of your rescue moved in
And all of that jazz
that clash
that mad dash I tried to make for the door
before
the shadow of your returning closed in
made my eyes wild and my head bob with desire
you told me there were too many rotten apples in my basket
I thought I was in heaven
using potholes for hotplates
on the road I write constantly
about trying to hibernate in muggy weather
there is no one to scratch my back
or correct my spelling mistakes
I was drunk with Carlo in Midtown
(cab $5.00)
manic in a Chelsea boutique with Billy
(antique lamp $240)
and elevated (oh so high) in Manhattan
all by myself in a bloom of faces that fit
(priceless)
I had a jazz dream (oh boy did I dream)
buying a pretzel in front of a deli in Queens
I wanted to smoke
dance
prance
trance
one last chance on the freeway
one last dance on the midway
one last prance on the runway
one last trance on the dancefloor
before
the contour of your rescue moved in
And all of that jazz
that clash
that mad dash I tried to make for the door
before
the shadow of your returning closed in
made my eyes wild and my head bob with desire
you told me there were too many rotten apples in my basket
I thought I was in heaven
