Timed Out of New York
Ordering off the off
menu at Veselka.
2am army of sloshed
sauerkraut-eating
blintz besties, flashing
out-of-town, post-
Palladium kids the real
music of the city
through teeth-mashing
sweet and sour scenes:
Bartering for space,
freestyle mixtapes on
Bleeker,
(buying from Papito,
who knew Lisa Lisa,
before)
the after-school run to 8th
in black Lycra for nubuck
buttered Doc Martens.
Chicken’s feet on Canal,
between the grey third rail and a
magic yellow Sports Walkman's
stomping bass.
Mouth breathing through the
smack of expired Chinatown.
August.
Know better than sandals
antagonizing rats with red toes
on snarled subway platforms.
Singing in chorus with warring street
poets, not soliciting vegetables:
“’Shroom haven, get a
peace of heaven,” hustling
marked time on St. Marks.
Gleaning from glistening Drag
Queens, at Mac, on Christopher.
Gentle. Patient. Painted, nodding
dirty, platinum men. The first to say:
“You’re beautiful,” to the drum of
the Jungle Brothers.
Underage and
overstimulated
our ambition gnarled
with the blonde’s.
We blinked.
The Black and Brown
boys’ vogue got
snatched. Up
town, 3am 4 train.
We had to leave.