BOX 206

Down the hall of the Chelsea Hotel

midnight New York

sheered the chandeliers from passing cars

and the walls looked so cool

when marijuana

was deep rooted in your blood.

Down the hall of my life

I met musicians in their rooms

laid their women and they laid mine

nobody really gave a shit.

Life was a vibe

and now that vibe is long dead.

The cars and buses keep on moving

and the walls are always jittering

maybe the pot sucks now

or maybe the next generation

hallucinates on love.

God, I miss Jimmy and Janis

irresponsible kids

crashing at friends or on the roof

feeling freer than a gypsy.

I was too scared to fall in love

love was transient

and the times just zoomed by.

Down the stairs of the Chelsea Hotel

I can smell Mark Twain’s socks.

Beatles?

John left a cruddy pair of underwear

with some bitch

who swears he loved her more than Yoko.

I am so sick

time is a rapist of our senses, and I

feel so freakin’ violated.

At the front desk of the Chelsea Hotel

I left my tears there.

If you look in Box 206 you’ll find them.