(A Lengthy Memoir for Family and Interested Friends)
*Scroll down for YouTube Video
Well-meaning promises girlfriends make
When almost eighteen
Trip to Greenwich Village
Four dollars a night room
Oozing weed, house on fire
Herbs inspire
We vowed
To stay together
When meeting guys
If one doesn’t like hers
Move on to the next
Together…
Seemed like thousands of hippies
In search of the music
(and weed)
(and sex)
Took over the streets of
MacDougal and Bleecker
Almost eighteen
Lovely lasses, although
I wouldn’t realize that until
Reaching old age
Two guys hitting on us
Not sure if we used that expression
Back then
I liked mine, she didn’t, moved on
Another two guys
Same thing
She liked the third pair
But I didn’t
Sorry, says she, I want him
Hated his friend
I just wasn’t existential enough
To like someone who bluntly said,
“I want to f*ck you”
Come on man, I think
Lie a little
Reach into your bag of romantic words
Say you can really love me, or something
Because the truth is
I’m a virgin at almost eighteen
We’re now at the Café Wha
Begging her, saying, “You promised”
“Oh please,” says she, “I think he’s the one.
Go find another, the place is crawling with guys”
Walking around alone
Meeting interesting possibilities
Watching a band set up
Black man with electric guitar
Electric guitar?
Isn’t this a folk music club?
What?
Or should I say
Wha?
He twangs
We roll our eyes
Continue talking
Noise level bursting
My not-known-at-the-time
Autistic brain
But suddenly
The guitar
The voice
OMG, I mean, Groovy
Fog of silence muffles the audience
Only the voice
Only the guitar
“What’s his name?” I whisper
To the enthralled guy next to me
“Hendrix, the sign outside said,
Jimi Hendrix”
Heaven must have sent you from above
Jimi Hendrix…
So then the set is over
And I just want to be alone
With my thoughts
And the electric sound
That I swore I’d never listen to
Again
I leave the Café Wha
Never understanding left from right
Find myself on the edge of
The Bowery
An Edward Hopper Nighthawkish
Coffee shop
Not hip like a coffee house
Counter the only place to
Drink stale, black coffee
Wow, I think
Looking around
Everyone is male
Everyone is beaten down
Hazed in alcoholic poverty
Can’t even claim to hear
The Beatles singing
“All the lonely people”
Because they’re still singing
“Yeah, yeah, yeah songs”
That’s how long ago it was
Eyes drawn to the window
Neon-lit sign
Backwards, blinking
Holy sh*t! my mind exclaims
Bickford’s!
I’m sinking all night
In submarine light
At Bickford’s
Paraphrase of Ginsberg’s Howl
Is it my karma to relive
All the sad songs and poetry
Of the universe…?
Outside again, lost in the dark
But manage to find
Fourteenth Street & Seventh Avenue
Roaches on the walls
Lonely weed smoke in the halls
Shove my stuff into a duffle
Leave a note for the friend
Manage to find the subway
After a conversation with, I’m sure,
A serial killer who wants to take me home
Three in the morning
Subway roaring
Greyhound Terminal
(didn’t Ginsberg write a poem about that too?)
Two hours later
A new dawn in Philly
Just another day in the life of
A lonely teenager…
(for a continuation, see my poem Screw You Universe written previously) https://poeturja.wordpress.com/2016/07/31/screw-you-universe-another-memoir-apology/
YouTube video (this song not recorded until 2 years after the action of the poem but I like the Hendrix-Dylan mix) https://youtu.be/TLV4_xaYynY
© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Café Wha 1966 NY Daily News