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Now my social circle, such as it is, resembles a bit a Fellini ensemble: Comprised almost entirely of souls I’ve just met up with, there’s this homeless guy I feed sometimes … El Flaco John and Todd Sin Pelo, two sad sacks I revel in at “work”, this outdoor theater …
There’s bright Crystal, lovely! Eighteen! Topless!! Now, two German stewardesses … from night streets, separate outings – Why, on two diverse young evening jaunts!
Karola met and knot-tied with her Corsican Mann down in Mexico City. She sprekz well, das Spanish … The night we went crazed, after sucking down Fosters (she loves Australian beer, she said, and only sampled French parfum), I caught her peeping my way through a pair of Woodsy lenses.
Drunk when I met her, and heavy with child.
“Hi, I’m Delphine!” Delphine broadcasts. “You are?”
“Sit down, Delphine. Want a beer?”
“I’m Greek!” Delphine shouts, and she plops with a thud on a cat-scratched futon. “My love, I am hungry! Have you any cream cheese?”
* * *
There’s a woman on the Upper West Side, loves to dream …
Why, each night, catch her traipsing her mangy hound here, the two of them dressed to the nines, fit to kill!
… And Zorro flicks hair from a flattish sombrero: a dyed blonde, unruly and posthumous mane. Her little pooch cries out as well … the two of them begging, imploring attention.
* * *
“You framed, man? Man, you must be FRAMED!“
I yell this to the homeless guy leaping out of the shadows at 78th Street … An empty wooden picture frame is swinging round his neck.
In true form, Ernest cracks with glee. “I dint do it! No,” shouts he.
No, “I was FRAMED!” we both yell.
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I’m watching Jungle Cali as she screams in with her vipers. Topless dancers from across the street …
She’s got this kind of jazz patois … Like, everything is straight, you dig? Like everything is solid, Jack! Like Wynton put some major foot up, David Sanborn far from sad.
I watch her now though, every night. She’ll scream in with her vipers when their shifts change, five a.m. … I watch them: Loud, she’ll scream in, claim their throne, commence to holding court, these vipers, caution to the wind!
She’ll flirt there, shout, caress meat thighs and wink at cabbies, me and all who, damaged, limp across her landscape … Jungle Cali laughs, we’ll cry, and die another year each night.
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Wolf, howling nighttime, prowled the Upper West, growling and swearing to himself …
He was generally harmless, howling “Wolf”, and kept to the demons within his head … The last time I saw Wolf, he had aged – albeit gracefully, with a little salt and pepper, George Clooney thing going on (short on the sides) … His posture improved … Occasionally, he’d ask me “How’s the Mrs.?” as he howled.
Then I ducked, as he swung a tree branch at me on Christmas Eve in 2010.
Since then, at the holidays, I think of Wolf …
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by Jeff Glovsky