He said he was a poet
and came by
his right
to be sullen and moody
most righteously.
He said this with
with outrage
and indignation.
And I wondered
what kind of an excuse
Is that?
Was that?
Could I be moody
and call myself a poet
just like that
at a snap of fingers?
Which brings to mind
I could now
snap my fingers unforgiving.
I could walk down the street
snapping my fingers
and people from all over
would come up to me
and ask me
what I was doing?
I could just look at them
with this smile on my face
and say
I’m a poet damn it!
But that’s not all
there is more to this story
I got run out of New York
City
for being a poet.
I lived on 76th
street
near Riverside Drive
My apartment was the size of
a Twinkie
But it had a terrace
There were no real rooms
It was more like a closet
with a bath
and said terrace.
One night
not too late
I decided to perform poetry
from my terrace
overlooking the Henry Hudson
River.
I would rain words down on
society
every unassuming passerby
would be enabled
no empowered to hear my
poetry.
I dressed in black
and snapped my fingers a lot
as I bounced my words
down to the sidewalk.
People looked up at me
and smiled
some would wave
some would say hello
some would laugh
some would curse at me.
The beautiful women
who lived
across the street
continued to parade naked
in front of the window.
I never knew if it was for my
benefit
or their own.
There were three of them
all blonde.
I appreciated my view
Of river and beauty
and I appreciated that I
could
poetize spontaneously
without combusting.
For a moment I felt
just like a poet
damn it!
And that moment seemed
to last a lifetime
Some would laugh
I hung on to that
terraced poetic perfection
with my last words.
Suddenly
sirens rifled may air
a huge searchlight
scanning the building
for outlaws and
chasing scofflaws.
The beam searched
relentlessly for words
left hanging
from the walls.
A blue-suited megaphone
shouted
up into the apartment
hierarchy
YOU UP THERE!
They searched
for this disturber of the
peace
they wanted him to come
forward
and identify himself.
The women across the way
got dressed
saving my life,
alerting me
to the dangers lurking below
where New York’s Finest
danced in criminal pursuit
minuet
searching for my desperate
tune.
I disguised myself in trench
coat
slipped outside
without benefit of I. D.
I politely asked the head cop
What are you doing?
What’s going on?
Was there a murder I asked?
He shook his head!
Was there a break-in I
wondered
for there was massive
manpower
now on west 76th
street
four cop cars
with bubblegum machines
blazing
stopped all traffic on the
street
removing my audience.
The cop with megaphone was
serene
going about his business with
Dirty Harry mentality.
He kept shouting for me
to stand down and surrender.
Only I was not there
I was standing next to him
devil may care and
not making his day.
I asked again
what’s going on?
He replied with
Clint Eastwood finality
there’s someone up there
talking to people
without permission!
And we’re here to stop him
he is endangering the
community
disturbing the peace!
You need this show of force
To detain him
I inquired?
The cop squawked
He is armed and dangerous!
He might be loaded
I thought to myself
But armed and dangerous?
I looked around
Scratched my head
Showed I was on his side
I whispered in his ear
He’s a poet
Damn it!
