All day long I’ve been singing New York,
The Lou Reed album,
One of my favorites,
A first CD back when I hardly had any,
The grit, parred down sounds,
Hard without the hairspray,
Folk with more of a cool factor, and
Ah, the lyrics, narrators speaking a truth,
Telling stories on the edge,
Cutting, biting, fearless.
As I ran around dead people,
And I thought of how crazy these times are,
When the vision of Night of the Living Dead
Popped into my head,
I passed Bayard Taylor, a local author of note,
His grave something special,
An ostentatious expression of self-importance
Or some kind of family hanging on
That seemed to fit with Lou’s words,
“I’m sick of you,” not really you Bayard,
It was just timing, your big stone running
Right into Lou’s big stones,
And the kick in the crotch this virus has brought.
After yet another gray day,
I’m back at the keyboard, plugging away with my thoughts,
This time stoked by a proper listening to New York.
It’s hard to keep my focus,
I’m not dreaming of being a doctor, sort of got that one,
Or a layer, but I do fantasize about being on a boulevard
With a huge crowd of people not worrying about shit.
Maybe next month,
We can hope.
In the meantime, it’s nearly as good dreaming with Lou Reed.