This is a New York City poem.
I think probably 2/3 of my poems are about New York City.
Half?
I don't know.
This is a poem called the Writings of the Mystics.
In the neighborhood where I lived
in New York, which is near NYU, East 13th Street and 4th
Avenue, in those days, there were a lot of used bookstores.
And there was a famous one called Wiser, that specialized
in occult literature.
And two floors, there was even a basement.
You went down these steps, and you pull the string,
and looked at the shelves and you could see something.
Egyptian secrets-- How to Become Invisible.
[LAUGHTER]
That's-- a lot of trash, I mean, of two or three centuries.
But also some really very good books.
So this is me in the late 50s in this poem,
the Writings of the Mystics.
"On the counter, among many much-used books, the rare wine
you must own immediately, the one
that makes your heart race as you wait for small change
with a foolish grin you'll take to the street,
and later pass the land lady, watching you wipe your shoes.
Then up to the rented room, which
neighbors the one of a nightclub waitress, who
is shaving her legs with the door partly open,
while you turn to the first page,
which speaks of a presentiment of a higher existence
in things familiar and drab.
In a building soon to be torn down, suddenly,
hushed and otherworldly, you find
yourself whispering your own name
in the words of the hermit, since it
must be past dinnertime--
the one they ate quickly, happy that your small portion went
to the three-legged dog.