I'd like to start with a fairly old poem.
This one particularly because I'm fond of it
and because it's an easily available or accessible poem
and from childhood.
The poem is called "Life without Abie."
And Abie was an eccentric character in my neighborhood
when I was a little kid.
And I'm sure most of you had the same kind of character.
He was retarded, I guess.
He was about 55 or 60 years old, retired retarded man.
And I guess he was a sex pervert in some way.
But I wasn't really aware of that at age seven or eight.
But he used to teach us all the dirty words when
I was a little kid.
And I imagined at one point in his career
as the neighborhood pervert, they
took him off to the funny farm.
And years later, I imagined him to be something of a--
or fantasized him to be something of a neighborhood
sexual figure.
And in his absence, the neighborhood sort of drooped.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]
OK.
"Life without Abie".
"Everyone on the block recalls his sins
like half remembered movies, a wet dream, the widow's
empty bed, a small boy's hand gripping emptiness.
On velvet seats, we caress our own tight thighs.
We open like lockets.
On Friday night, we confess in secret booths.
Life without Abie is a drag.
Our favorite queer, foul mouth.
He taught us how to grin and hide
our hands when they itched.
When they took him to the funny farm,
we pissed against the wall and laughed.
We didn't understand.
Among his own kind now, nose to nose,
he is loved as a hanky against the weather.
And you think I care?
Man, I'm not just standing here shooting pool.
You can still buy it in the street for two
bits and the secret wink.
He swells in your pants pocket.
Do you miss his bent shadow like a thief's, a half moon sinking
into your doorway each dark night, a bouquet,
the fierce smell of heat behind the shades in every room?
Abie, we repent.
We touch you with our hands.
We fall asleep alone, and in the mornings,
plunge like semen into the everyday dust."