Tag: pavement cafe

that time I tried to buy merch from Jeffrey Lewis

the first time I heard Jeffrey Lewis play,
I was quite impressed.
my little brother
had told me about Jeffrey,
I think he sent me a link to
the video for “Williamsburg
Will Oldham Horror”, and Jeffrey
was playing at Sidewalk and my
brother told me to go. I remember
he played that song “Anxiety Attack”
and it struck me as being very
honest and not a little bit
brave, because he wasn’t trying to
whitewash anxiety or in any way make it
seem like anything other than
what it is, which is shitty.

after the gig I spoke to Jeffrey
I think, and then I went home
and went on his website
and bought two t-shirts,
one for me and one for
my brother, who’s such a big
fan. Jeffrey wrote to me
and said that he had noticed
that I lived in New York and
so did he, so if I wanted to,
I could come find him at the
Sidewalk Open Mic that night and pick up
my shirts in person and he would
refund me the twelve dollars
I had already paid
for shipping. his email went
to my spam folder and I
didn’t see it til
the next day. I wrote back
and tried to be cute and ended up
sounding pretentious and
invited him to Catweazle, or
he said I could stop by
his apartment but I was too shy.
we played email tag
for a month and then he finally
mailed them to me and
when they arrived,
one of them was the wrong size
and I was too embarrassed
to say anything
after so much hassle –
until now.

every time I see him at the mic
I look away and hope to god
he doesn’t recognize me.
at one point my then-boyfriend tried to book him
for our show at Sidewalk
and there was a lot of emailing back and forth
but it didn’t end up happening.
so that’s my pitiful story
of how I tried to buy merch from
Jeffrey Lewis and embarrassed
myself in the process. I still like
your music though. in fact I am writing this poem
at one of your shows. sorry dude
that I’m so weird.

to the server at my favorite venue, who always buys me a shot

why do you do this? I am always
on the verge of
getting drunk
anyway, the last thing I need
is a shot, which I am not sure
how it gets paid for,
but I feel bad
if it comes out of
your pocket. that said,
I hardly ever
say no. a free (to me)
shot is a free shot, after all,
even if I sip it. thank you
for thinking of me.

cupcakegate

yes, I’m still mad
about the cupcake incident.
it’s extremely stupid and yet
it was very rude and
upsetting. who would have thunk
a sweet little thing like that
could cause so much harm,
and make things so awful
that I wish you would disappear
from the scene forever? so
do me a favor, would you, and
stay away?

no. it’s no use. if you
were the kind of person
who respected others,
you wouldn’t have done that thing
with the fucking cupcake
to begin with.

to the lesbians making out across from me

I’m glad
that you’re here. I’m even gladder
that certain people
of my acquaintance
are not. they might well
write a song about you
which would objectify you
and make your healthy sexuality
into a spectacle for their delectation
when it’s nobody’s business
but yours.

that said, I really like
how you look like
real lesbians, comfortable with
yourselves and each other and
public displays of affection,
and I like how you kiss like
real lesbians, not like two girls
who aren’t really attracted to each other
but are getting paid big bucks
to ritually titillate men by half-assedly making out.

you’re not plucked and
made up to within an
inch of your lives,
toned and tanned
and fake-nailed etc.
(not that I judge the women
that have made that choice
to survive under the patriarchy.)
it’s just refreshing to see two ladies
who are so obviously
in love.

to the cutest new waiter at my favorite venue, whose name may be Chad

you’re so
clean cut and innocent-looking
with your muted plaid shirts
like you just moved here
from Connecticut or
New Hampshire or
Wisconsin or Idaho;
somewhere bucolic
that isn’t so smoggy.

your clear country skin
is creamy as a milkmaid’s,
you’ve never seen rats, or roaches –
or homeless dudes relieving
themselves on the subway
right before asking for change –
until now.

your cloudless blue eyes
have never felt the poison kiss
of acid rain or mysterious awful liquids dripping
from air conditioning units
that love to land
right in your pretty little
peepers – until now.

did you move here to become
an actor? that’s so adorable.
you’re probably young enough
to be my child. much as I would love
to spoil you – in and out of bed –
I can see by your face that
you haven’t suffered
enough yet to be an artist of note.
get back to me in a few years
when New York has broken
your spirit a little bit more.

maybe by then you’ll have forgotten
my embarrassing little secrets
like how I order extra butter
for the garlic bread that is supposedly
“already buttered”, or how I left a full bowl
of pasta sauce consisting entirely
of onions, having picked out
all the penne and all the bacon,
or how I danced not entirely awkwardly
to Ben Pagano’s set
like a broken robot. please, forget
these things that make me look
somewhat less than cool,
and I’ll forgive how very pretty
you are, little country boy.

Open Mic Life

hey, it’s totally fine and cool, whatever
that you left before
the bitter end. and
I don’t blame you
in the slightest for wanting to
avoid the awkwardness
that lay before you
had you stayed. I was not
looking forward
to night’s end either, and I think
we both know why. our friend Bobby
is awfully persistent.

I do have three regrets. only
two of which
are relevant:

I’m sorry that I was outside, around
the corner, deep in
conversation with my girl friend,
when you made your
goodbye and getaway.

but
I’m even sorrier
that I was late and so I missed
your set. how’d it go? tell me
everything.

and finally,
I was wondering…
did you happen
to catch mine?

to my suitor, whose name may be Bob

you’re
great. there’s
nothing wrong with you.
you’re perfectly agreeable, not bad
looking, willing to attend
all the mics and shows and
stuff, the perfect
audience member. you
bought me a drink
at the last event
where I met you. thank you
for that, by the way. but
you’re awfully handsy,
when it was scarcely warranted,
and frankly you are lacking the edge
that I have come to relish
in the kind of men to whom
I find myself attracted. you laugh
at all my jokes, but contribute
none of your own. where’s
your art? I’ll need to see a lot more
proof of your credentials
before I consider more seriously
your suit.

improved

you read my mind – again.
you wrote exactly what I was thinking
as I watched our mutual friend
kicking ass on stage.
she’s taller, skinnier, prettier, younger,
stronger, healthier, more energetic;
she has her entire life ahead of her,
can play guitar pretty well,
wrote most of her own songs,
and totally rocks the bangs.

at first I could only see how
she was far, far better than I;
how surely anyone looking at her
would forget all about the inferior,
flawed 1.0 version that is me;
how surely you would never settle
for such a pathetic substitute,
if you could strut around
with her on your arm.
but as she played I realized
that she is herself,
shining brightly in all her glory,
and I am
whatever strange and desperate
thing I am, but that to compare us
is to compare the sun to the moon,
the forest to the waterfall,
the endlessly susurrating sea
to the merrily babbling brook.

you got one thing wrong, though.
I have something far better
than a use for you.
I do have a need for you,
a pivotal role, in fact,
and it’s one that I wish you could accept.
it’s not as a chauffeur,
it’s not as comic relief,
it’s not as a shoulder to cry on,
but as a partner to stand by me, and
as a boyfriend to go on long walks with, and watch TV with, as a friend to confide in and listen to you –
reflecting yourself back to you
only better, because I see the inner and outer cornucopia of beauty in you that you are so sadly blind to –
as a lover to kiss and to hold me, and
as a reason to get up in the afternoon, and
as a slow-blooming flower by which
to measure my days.

you’re no substitute for anyone for me;
there’s no one else who has my heart.
you’re not my second choice.
If only you could say the same for me.