Tim Dlugos


NYC Diary

Drove up w/ 4 people in front seat.

Stopped several times on 95.

Could only buy $2 worth of gas on NJ Tpk.

Big D Discount Store—looked like a cartoon.

Found Prince Street easily.

Moved furniture upstairs—Randall De Leeuw lives there.

Dinner at the Luna, in Little Italy.  Decorations:
       Letter from Gov. of Maine, dated Oct 1950.
       Recommendation by Walter Winchell.
       Murals w/ cracks painted on.
       Picture of a bishop (St. Rocco?)

Christmas lights up on streets of Little Italy.

St. Mark’s Poetry Project:
       Rob, looking beautiful.
       Anne Waldman, looking sharp (copper hair!)
       Patti Smith (sexy!)
       Paul Violi’s great poems
       Allen Ginsberg, gray of beard
       Heckler in back row, Charlie Mingus’ son.
       Bad poetry—Oren Eisenberg, Bill Zavatsky.
       Taylor Mead, w/ a huge forehead like Allen Tate’s.
       Anthony Dowell’s group, incl. his wife who I thought
            was Jim Carroll when I only could see her face, and
            Val Curzon who is having tea w/ John Ashbery the next day.
       The Hasidic Jesus-person who wouldn’t give up the mike.

Back at Prince St. (brush teeth).

Ninth Circle—conversation w/ someone who looks like Michael—
       at first glance.  Freaked out actor.

The Street—beautiful blond boy in green coat.

Road House—conversation w/ chubby speech therapist from
       Brooklyn College.  He says he’ll write me a letter.

David’s Potbelly—Ramon’s immense piece of chocolate cake—
       my tomato juice—nice waitress, 4 or 6 drunken fat disgusting
       men at the next table.

Back to Prince St.

Five in a bed (2 mattresses), a la Three Stooges.

Wake up late Sat.  Rain.  English muffins, then take taxi
       from Houston Street to George Faust’s house.  Michael says
       he’s an Allen Austin-type person, and his home looks
       something like Allen Austin’s.

The cute Faust child.  (1½?  2?)

Subway uptown to Fifth Ave.  Meet Barbara Baracks for lunch
       at deli.  Heavy talk w/ Michael while Terry & Barbara have
       heavy talk.  She’s 22, bright-eyed, and knows considerably
       less abt. poetry than I do.  She writes well though.  Has
       printed a broadside which she gives each of us, w/ autograph.

Then to bookstore at Museum of Modern Art.  Joe Brainard’s
       I Remember Christmas.  Joe Brainard’s Christmas card.
       Much Duchamp material, in connection w/ current exhibit
       at MOMA.  Book called The Machine w/ metal cover.

By now it’s sleeting.  I’m only wearing a t-shirt under
       my coat (the one from New Ingenue).

We run around like maniacs trying to find Terry’s brother’s
       office.  Finally manage to, but the brother’s not in.
       We go to lobby & make phone calls for awhile.

Michael says we can’t visit Brainard because he’s having a fight
       w/ his landlady this afternoon.  Bus downtown.

Get off next to a Woolworth’s.  I need socks and underwear,
       so we walk in where we see (fanfare!) Anne Waldman.  I
       buy underwear; we’re going up the street w/ her for coffee.

A long time talking w/ Anne.  She likes the way my book looks.
       She wants me to send her the review in the Star where
       Sean Mitchell panned her.  She says living in India for
       4 months is cheaper than living on St. Mark’s Place.
       Everyone she knows is poorer than they were last year
       at this time.  Don’t be shy, she says, and I won’t.  I
       am very high.  She asks me to autograph my book, and
       I write something dumb like “Hope you like these.” which
       is true, though.

We leave Anne’s and get pictures of ourselves in photo booth
       at Woolworth’s.  We get to keep 2, and give the other 2
       to each other.
Go to the Eighth Street Bookshop.  I’m a little upset that SOUP
       books are on racks w/ the little magazines, but they do
       show off better that way.  I want to buy Witt by Patti
       Smith, In Baltic Circles by Paul Violi, and Alice Notley’s
       book from Angel Hair.  Also Magellanic Clouds by
       Wakoski, even though Waldman said she’s not writing well
       anymore.  (Other things A.W. said—APR is horrible
       (she didn’t care, I think, for Parker); Ted Berrigan is
       responsible for the St. Mark’s group having a bad reputation
       because he made them look so cool in lectures around the
       country (1968 or so); people get upset not because the
       St. Mark’s people are rich or successful in terms of major
       publishers, but because they’re having fun.)  Anyway,
       I don’t buy any of the books for lack of $.  We take
       a cab to Prince Street.

Drive w/ Ramon to his cousin’s for drinks.  43 Fifth Ave.
       (bldg. designed by Stanford White, w/ gargoyles and
       cherubs on lobby walls.)  His cousin turns out to be
       Agustin Fernandez, painter from Cuba who just moved here
       from Paris.  Wife Lia, from Rumania.  3 beautiful children.
       Beautiful apt.  Beautiful French houseguest.  I get high
       on whiskey and soda in beautiful brandy snifter.  The
       Fernandezs carry on a tri-lingual conversation, mentioning
       friends like Anais Nin, Lawrence Durrell, Bowles and Oc-
       tavio Paz.  Lia thought Burroughs was a disgusting man.
       Terry & I talk to Agustin about Irish wakes and anonymous
       violence.  Ramon leaves in the middle of the conversation.
       We split after half an hour, feeling really fine.  My
       adjectives for Agustin are “magnanimous,” “generous,” and
       “rich.”  He might do a collaboration w/ Ashbery, whom I
       ought to call, who’s haunting, in a sense, this trip.

Next, to a restaurant called One Potato for dinner.  I spend
       a long time on the phone to Jim (who sounds distant, making
       me paranoid—I’m sure I sound drunk which makes me even
       more paranoid), to Spin & to parents.
Then to Prince St.  Michael, Ramon & Randy are going to the
       Club Baths; they drop Terry and me off at the Ninth Circle.
       I meet a very beautiful boy named Robert Rooney, who
       lives (damn!) w/ his family in Jersey City, who went
       to the Christian Brothers school at Hudson, and who works
       in the Alumni Shop at Lord and Taylor’s.  Talk abt.
       coincidences!  His birthday is May 9.  We can’t get together
       tonight, but we talk all night and exchange addresses.
       He gives much Rob Dewey cool glamour, which I know
       exactly how to handle.  That makes me feel good.  Randy
       Michael & Ramon arrive at 2, and we go back to Prince St.,
       again sleeping a la Stooges.

I don’t sleep as well as the night before.

Randy seems like he’ll be glad to see us go: understandable.

Ramon, Michael & Terry split for breakfast, but I’m out of $
     so don’t.  Listen to Michael’s tapes of the St. Mark’s read-
     ings, then write these notes so I won’t forget what I
     did in NY.  Randy goes out to Canal Street, leaving me
     in the apt. with his cat, hairy, black and amorous.

                                                                        4 Jan 74


Note and Sonnet

            for Ted Berrigan

the way I used “you” in my poems
after June 1973, meaning
nothing I know

1974—it’s January 5
It’s Washington it was
New York 2 days ago    Prince St.
Outside Randy’s window    nothing
I know I thought I was being Shy:
I know Anne Waldman
I know Michael & Terry
I know the church at Prince &
Elizabeth that rings the highspeed
Angelus    6 a.m.    dear Ted I
Know so many people who love you
Read the Sonnets all afternoon in
DC    in my poems    the terrible
Windows    the way I was using “you”

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review