There is a bar in 1970s New York right now
where David’s looking outta sight, as always, &
John Lennon’s dreaming into his beer.
The sunshine has been let out a long time ago,
like an tourist from Iowa, staggering from the lunch special,
but the night stretches long and lean in the neon.
Lou looks sad already,
but Ms. Woodlawn is due on the next bus.
Warhol gathers cans for the homeless shelter,
he’s going to meet Pedro Pietri
and carve decrees into the rock, or the Ramones
will tear it down.
The world is dead or gaudy or worse,
exploded into technicolor – wham!
But the bar is open.
Wisdom and emptiness are
brand names on either side
of the whisky; all that’s left
Bambaataa, out on the block,
whispers through the window to Ginsberg,
as Patti Smith scratches out a few notes (you thought
you had to be dead to be
eternal? Oh, no no no. You only have
to be living)
As the night goes down on the city,
it’s no longer happening, man,
I mean, it’s happened.
The bar, at least,
is still open.
Of course it’s still open – this is New York.
You can go in.