I was no golden winged angel
but I hovered ten feet above the well-worn floor
I hovered ten feet over the man
with his stable, well-earned face
and his necktie of respectability
and a satisfied pipe
I get the big one first
and he kicks on his back like an angry whore
Out back every other night or so
A circle of faces
I wrap myself in their cold stares
Their drunken grins of grief
In bars where bartenders
serve poisoned laughter
Gershwin is on the radio
That radio with guts
Banging and praying to get out
I was wrong and graceless and sick
I was sweating on the bed
That mattress had seen the sex
and the arguments and the dreams
and the conversations
And I could hear the crickets
And there was a catfigtht outside
But I am a fighter, dammit
I’m nothing but guts
I used to be in the ring
I’ve fought the best
Boxing matches
are temples of learning
A boxer
A pugilist, an artist
A friend of Ernie’s
A friend of Picasso’s
The lines across my cheeks
My mangled ear
I had been in some fierce ones…
but never mind my face
I still have fast hands
They called me Kid Stardust
One part Legendary Stardust Cowboy
Three parts bad motherfucker
I fought in South America
I fought in Europe
I fought in Africa
I fought on the islands
The tank towns
Fighting is like writing
Revise
Revise
Revise, again and again
The fighters
The poets
Tighten your lines
like bolts holding the span of a 5 mile bridge
Snap and rip
energetic sentences
Lay the word down
bright and writhing
The stink of blood and murder
and talk of Christ
I put out my cigarette
and await some form of mercy or other
The cashiers at the racetrack scream,
The Poet Knows!!
But now the writer must
slowly remove his hands
from the keys
Even the pugilist must rest
There is nothing to do but drink
Play the horse
Bet on the poem
And dream of ruined insurance companies
There is nothing left to do but drink
as the young girls
become women
and dream of old Greta Garbo movies
There is nothing left to do but drink
as the machine guns
point toward me
crouched behind walls thinner than eyelids
There is nothing left to do but drink
and dream of the hooker with the pelican eye
Brass belly button
and ivory heart
There is nothing left to do but drink
Across the mattress on that bed
And dream of a rag in my mouth
and a bullet in my head
We don’t like you
people around here
The circle of faces
I wrap myself in their cold stares
Their drunken grins of grief
put there by bartenders
serving poisoned laughter
I ‘m not people.
I’m Kid Stardust
