Today I watched a pepperoni
pizza give itself
up to two chewing mouths on
television –
a commercial for two chewing
mouths, I think,
though I do not recall where
you can buy them –
and I looked around at the results
of my exquisitely
ridiculous good luck at being just
where I could
not imagine not existing – what
reference
.
could I have for elsewhere? –
and I betook myself
from my warm January New York
City private lair –
to tell you I live there is to
exult in it – and with
a practiced fine alacrity I wrapped
myself into
a long back winter coat and
pulled down on my
thug-shaved head a watch cap,
also black, which
made me feel like Jean Genet,
and made my way
.
to get two slices from a pepperoni
pizza at a pizza
place on Second Avenue around
the corner
between Second Street where I
reside and Third,
where Quentin Crisp once lived –
a handful
of inconsequential minutes with
a consequence:
a renewed acquaintance with one
patent fact,
that I lived in a place where I
profoundly couldn’t
.
ever be alone. I lived among who
knew how many
hundred thousands of New
Yorkers in a compass
which expanded within outer
city limits to eight
million and a bit. This was lustrously
brought
home to me by seeing not more than
sixteen
or twenty strangers bustling by
me, easily
accommodated by the large capacious
freezing
.
winter night. Because there’s
always space for
the anointed denizens of this unbreachable
great
center of the Soul, this city that
I nonetheless have
breached and now can eat a
pizza in and write
a paean to and do a drawing for
I do not have the least
compunction to explain or to
forgive. All I have to do
right now is all I can’t not
do: pizza-fully live.
.
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