Greg Fuchs

 

Cab Driver

Better wake me home into memory
loss. No freaking idea how I made it
home. Thank you cab driver for accepting
half the fare, not leaving me nowhere.
Everyone was as high as the moon. Nobody’s
business if I do for you is live
the life you want to live but are too
responsible, too thoughtful, too faithful
to live. Too hard to forget. Easy
to remember how you killed me, how you caressed
me, how you made me feel through the night.
In a trance I get to understand
war, greed, love, hate, profane, the sacred.
Then you read my books. Learn about this.

 

Thompson Street

Contemplate the width of the door.
Sofa controversy. Shrimp dumplings.
Tiny bombshells teeter on giant heels.
Belly buttons galore. Flip flops flip flop.
Where do we work? Hang out in the breeze.
Yoga mat walks on by. Jamaican accent
fucking way mon, fucking way mon.
Contemplate the sofa too big for the door.
Angry belly in a safari shirt
gotta get through that door.
Big man walks tiny pooch.
Too big behinds inside too small jeans.
New tenant stress case angry belly
with a screwdriver explodes at Jamaican movers.
Chinese dudes kvetch in half-lotus.
Klatch klatch on the corner.
The hideous sofa makes it through but it’s hideous.

 

Back In NYC

Thousands search for new subway.
Tired, break my watch on a door.
Come to terms with first time true American
living beyond my means.
Welcome, you’re screwed.
Never lived in the Chelsea Hotel
Never went to Studio 54
or had anonymous sex at Plato’s Retreat.
But have fooled around in bathrooms
all over the lower east side.
Any minute sanity may exit the stage.
Go for a walk in the park.
Listen to piano player sing all about sex
and social disease and love, sad and funny.
Can’t you be sad and funny too?
Can you get the job without compromise
before the mind breaks in a zillion tiny pieces?

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