This is Christmas 1971,
going to St. Mark's Poetry Project
for the mass Christmas reading
that all the poets partook of.
In the church I wrote a blues song
to show the other poets what I could
do with song form, new music.
Come back, Christmas.
Christmas, come back,
New York City died last year.
New Year, come back,
big city died last year.
Dead on her big stone feet,
no light bulb shed one tear.
Oh, Mr. Santa Claus,
how come you're still comin' round?
Historic reindeer flyin' the
same old ground
Anyway, you North Pole people
sure make a pretty sound
Bring me a big mass transport
Garbage disposal system, too
Clean my po lice force so my
Boyfriends won't sniff so much glue
And I'll start giving presents
And thank you for coming in blue
Last year I thought I'll never leave
Manhattan alive
Year be fore brought up my vomit
on Riverside Drive
Next year if I'm here,
I think I'll bring my beehive
Honey, oh honey, I know I'm makin' no sense,
no, not at all
Sweet molasses,
forgive my anti -war grunts
Sugar, baby,
this city stole my poetry pants
Merry Christmas,
don't take too much heart dope
Yes, Happy New Year,
don't hang yourself with a rope
Manhattan reborn,
after I gave up all hope
Radiator cockroach,
waving your horns at the wall
Go tell Mr. Bedbug
he'd better stay out there in the hall.
And then I went out after that
with my guitar -playing boyfriend
to McDougal Street
to taste the scene there
and hear what the loc
al young guitarists were doing,
and went to Feen John's
downstairs
in the basement on MacDougall Street,
and they asked us if we
wanted to do a set
among the amateur musicians
that were coming up and playing for free on
their loudspeaker sys tem
in the stone room basement downstairs.
So I said yeah,
and while we were waiting to go on and do a turn,
me and Gary, I wrote the next words.
wanted to be a minstrel man
Dic tated epics in books
Inside a Volkswagen van
Gray hair on my head
I'm singin' the best that I can
Oh, Mr. Garbage Man
Don't take me away, no
Not yet, no Mr. Garbageman,
don't dump truck me
like an old cigarette
Not till I pick out a song
you'll never forget
I tried singing mantras,
I tried singing out William Blake
I tried mantra chanting,
I tried tuning out old Holy Blake
Now I'll sing him the blues
if good God gives me a break
Back in the basement,
guitars ringing all around
Screaming in the basement,
guitars ring me all around
I can only play three chords,
I can still will sing my way
underground
Listen here children
I'm an old creep full of desire
I got a big mouth
It's because my heart is on fire
If I can get hot,
you could sing like an angel choir.
That was January 1972.