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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395843" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Poet in the Kitchen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">West Fifty-third was still Hell's Kitchen<br>the summer I first came to town,<br>Eleventh Avenue was boarded up,<br>the West Side Drive was falling down;<br>Jimmy Carter was still President,<br>though he'd become a running joke;<br>Abe Beame had recently been Mayor,<br>and New York City was flat broke.<br>I, too, was broke, the flat was free, <br>and so I landed in that place,<br>a walk-up three-room shotgun which <br>a gallery used for storage space<br>and where I could stay as long as I liked,<br>provided I kept an eye on the art . . . <br>but truth be told, it was hard to tell<br>where art might end and garbage start.<br>The premises hadn't been cleaned in years,<br>and clarity was not what the art was about--<br>there was clutter right up to the ceiling,<br>and I didn't dare throw anything out. <br>The bowl of pasta off in a corner,<br>the wall stuck here and there with pins,<br>might be a mural by Dike Blair<br>or an &quot;installation&quot; of Mel Chin's;<br>ink spilled across come binder paper,<br>pencil hashmarks by the phone,<br>might be a Vollmer, or a Tuttle,<br>or just a doodle by no one known;<br>a length of two-by-four was art;<br>and empty carton was art, too;<br>so was a hole in the plaster, where <br>an embalmed cockroach was on view.<br>There wasn't any inventory<br>and no way not to be impressed<br>with the thought that passing judgment<br>would be trickier than I'd guessed. <br>The entryway was the room in the back,<br>where a bathtub clogged the floor,<br>and a toilet filled an adjacent closet<br>left unencumbered by a door. <br>The entrance also served as the kitchen,<br>with no space, but with a range<br>on which I cooked whatever fare<br>I'd scraped together with spare change:<br>mashed potatoes drowned in ketchup,<br>kidney beans boiled in the can,<br>onions, pizza crust, and lettuce<br>chopped up with Crisco in a pan.<br>The middle room, which had no windows,<br>held a mattress, though no bed,<br>and what I hoped were only scattered<br>books I took a chance and read.<br>The room up front looked out on a lot,<br>and I used to sit for hours and stare<br>at days of 1979<br>from a Day-Glo painted chair,<br>contemplating a state of affairs <br>that appeared to be falling apart,<br>acquiring the taste for odd interiors<br>it takes to dwell in the House of Art.<br>I see myself then, learning to view<br>this world with a noncommittal eye:<br>the Russians are in Afghanistan,<br>stagflation is at an all-time high;<br>outside, the Iranian revolution<br>is in its first chaotic year;<br>inside, a poet's in the kitchen<br>washing won-tons down with beer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Bradley">George Bradley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395843" data-title="A Poet in the Kitchen de George Bradley" data-description="West Fifty-third was still Hell's Kitchen
the summer I first came to town,
Eleventh Avenue was boarded up,
the West Side Drive was falling down;
Jimmy Carter was still President,
though he'd become a running joke;
Abe Beame had recently been Mayor..."></div>
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