Chelsea
There was a time
when the world would not stop exploding,
big bang adolescence in the wet dream denim
of modernity,
there was a time when the centre of the universe
was only a 90 minute drive from JFK
and 222, West 23rd St. (between Seventh and Eight Avenue)
was the place to be.
Dylan in room #205
with eighteen shots of whiskey lined up
trying to channel the ghost of Dylan Thomas,
Leonard in room #424
with Janis just down the hall in room #411
looking for lovers under the unmade bed
and in the outstretched arms of Southern Comfort,
Nancy on the bathroom linoleum of room #100
while Sid was out,
Jimi and Jim lost in the ten story hubris
of top 40 gods
and poppers in the lift,
where Mark Twain
and Arthur Miller once got lost in the inkwell
and Thomas Wolfe realized you can’t go home,
Jane Fonda,
Jackson Pollock,
Brendan Behan,
Sarah Bernhardt,
there was a time when the energy of the ages
collected under one roof,
in 400 rooms with no vacuum cleaners,
where optimism was a pseudo-science
and the short stems of Aquarius
burned at both ends,
there was a time when the idiot savant domicile
of Youth
eschewed sterility,
when the sixties stumbled into the Chelsea
with young, bloodshot eyes
and screamed…
But everything is old now.
Dead as a doornail.
A wheezing asthmatic’s paradise.
Lacking vitality
and soul.
There was a time when anything goes
meant just that…
Now,
you can’t even smoke in the lobby.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario,Canada. He is the author of three books of poetry, the most recent entitled Pigeon Theatre (JTI Press). His work has recently appeared in The New York Quarterly, Red Fez, Zygote in my Coffee, Word Riot, Poems-For-All, Quills, and The Antigonish Review.
