My friend is screwing Matusow's babysitter,
so we all get invited to his Christmas party.
Lily Tomlin, a few years from fame,
does living-room standup.
Everyone gets totally wasted on
some of the best pot you've ever smoked.
The catered food is probably stupendous
but we're all so stoned that owl shit would taste
like bring-in from The Four Seasons.
Late at night, I go into the bedroom to
retrieve my coat, and there on the bed sits
Matusow sharing a joint with Norman Mailer.
Mailer glances up at me and glares:
looks but doesn't have to say
"Knock before you walk in, schmuck."
Excuse me, gentlemen, I say,
grab my coat, I think I almost bow like
some Austrian majo-domo, and leave.
Mailer's pot-fueled stare has burned a hole
in my back.
Now, which way is the IRT Express
back to the Bronx and the usual oblivion?
KTW/11-10-07
For Norman Mailer, d. 11/07
PS: I am endeavouring to post some poems by poets I like in the coming months as part of an attempt to expand this blog's focus. Kenneth and I are on a poetry list together and he graciously allowed me to post this poem. Thanks. Ken.
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