"Back on Times Square, Dreaming of Times Square."
Let some sad trumpeter stand on the empty streets at dawn,
and blow a silver chorus to the buildings of Time Square.
Memorial of ten years at 5:00 AM with a thin white moon
just visible above the green and grooking McGraw Hill offices.
A cop walks by, but he's invisible with his music.
The Globe Hotel, Garver lay in gray beds
there and hunched his back and cleaned his needles.
Where I lay many nights on the nod from his bloody leftover
cotton and dreams of Blake's voice talking.
I was lonely, Garver's is dead in Mexico, two years.
Hotels vanished into a parking lot,
and I'm back here sitting on the streets again.
The movies took our language, the great red sign--
A double bill of gassers!
Teenage nightmare.
Hooligans of the moon.
But we were never nightmare hooligans,
but seekers for the blond--
but seekers of the blond nose for truth.
Some old men are still alive, but the old junkies are gone.
We are a legend, invisible, but legendary is prophesied.
[APPLAUSE]