A KID AT THE CHELSEA

In a hotel room with a small t.v.
staring at cartoons, commercials
game shows and comedies
where at noon in a grainy stall
you leave your lame worry
for all the walled slogans
of graffiti in a flushed shower
of a vocabulary of assaulting words
(while I'm all in prayer of St. Francis
with melancholy but hope to attain
better in an after life)
with this continued rainy abyss
finding scraps of unlettered paper
from a creepy exhibitor neighbor
waiting for a brief answer of "Yes"
I'm frightened at his proposition
at my door ignoring
a hourly shadowy invitation
in the narrow sleek darkness
holding onto my teddy bear
near my Advent clock radio
without an hour's prohibition
of doing origami for a stranger
wanting to be spent anywhere
than in this hourly Kafka burlesque
with freshly painted Robert Henry's
abstract of " New York's City Snow"
staring at me by my water closet
by the florid window
hearing a flock of pigeons and a crow
in a metamorphosis of humoresque
when the time is set for creation
or to be at another train track
to visit the 14th station
or else crossing in another direction
at no man's land at Christmas time
to be near Bethlehem's manger
yet an art director wants to view
my play tomorrow
about Roualt's colorful clown
and coming down from
the bay at Boston
to interview at off off Broadway
racked by sorrow I try to pray.