All My Hopes in One Envelope

I said goodbye to someone that I loved.

I’ve got a friend in Havana, Cuba. She knows nothing of this New York City madness, knows nothing of the gossip or the fever, doesn’t care about the galleries, the openings or the closings, the come to my show tonights.

Play a song for me, buy a drink for me. By day by day by day. The Searchers sing on needles and pins. Jeff Baker thinks it fucking sucks. Jeff Paris thinks it fucking sucks. I think it fucking sucks, too.

What are you doing now? Sometimes I cry because I think no one knows me. I want to wake up with you slowly on Sunday mornings and listen to crackly old jazz records and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and look at photographs. The plan is to fuck this City and move to the suburbs where the sky sees stars. I’m only kidding about the cigarettes. They’re bad for you. You will remember me; you’ll keep in touch. I want our nights to be documented in the grooves, to be rediscovered in some cluttered closet with dirty rugs and dead roaches and wire hangers and overcoats.

They’ll make a compilation of us, a four-disc box-set, with extensive liner notes and a get-one-free promotion.

While sitting at your desk, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles. Now, while doing this, draw the number “6” in the air with your right hand. Your foot will change direction and there’s nothing you can do about it!