I saw you on a crowded street
and followed discreetly through
the alleyways and traffic,
behind the cartoon balloon stand,
perusing the soft porn racks.
And I believe that you knew me,
but didn’t want to crack
out of your role
because you laughed at the old billboard
as we used to while looking in my direction
(though I was hidden in a New York Times
beneath a street sign).
And I called you on the telephone,
breathing heavy, and asked about your tits
in a sexy put-on voice,
and you didn’t hang up, but laughed again,
and passed the phone to your spacey friend
who told me I sounded like
that guy in “Rocky Horror”
and did I dig cannibalism?
And I took another hit off the PCP joint and
melted back to animal
and slithered to the stereo for some Zappa.
And when Tom and Larry dropped by they
said they’d seen you
in the laund-o-mat washing your tie-dyed sheets and
but that you hadn’t said a word.
Sometimes I feel that we none of us exist
but are just some figment of a pocketnovel.
Then I drink cheap burgundy and play sad blues
on dark bar jukeboxes
and think about the war between us all.
And I try to believe that you believe it too,
but just won’t tell me
so I have to find out the strong way for myself.
And I call you on the telephone and cry
and ask to hold you.
And you reappear in my darkened room
like a porcelain angel,
touch my body as if in a dream
so that I only want to believe this dream is true.