Riding the steely twins West into the Emerald City,
scraping poetry off the streets. There’s a gathering
in the Fruit (or Veg?) art department today, a reunion
of a tribe that used to camp in Soho back in the day.
Inclined as I am to recoil from talking about the past,
the man from the USA was so radiant on the phone last
night that I recharged on his electric-pure-joy,
dancing amongst the black marks dripping paint onto my
Jackson Shoes, recalling nights in ’92 when I first cruised
the night streets of Manhattan.