It’s the Golden Age
and I’m in New York
pretending to be Holly Golightly
not Audry Hepburn, the real Holly Golightly
BigTex herself, all pinkness and smiles,
not meeting the gangsta though who’d keep me draped in pearls
just cruising down Fifth Ave. with all those Seven Sister sisters
who have a ticket to ride in the publishing game, and me just pounding out
telegrams for the military on telex machines waiting until I can meet
somebody, I mean Somebody, who’ll take notice of my talent when I
run uptown to Lincoln Center or stand outside practice rooms at the Julliard.
Sometimes sneaking into the theaters at intermission, flirting up the ushers,
getting seats to watch the greats! I mean the real greats on those stages –
Long Days Journey Into Night, Streetcar Named Desire, The Long Hot Summer,
Picnic– and the great musicals, My Fair Lady, West Side Story,
(where Leonard Bernstein is overawed by Stephen Sondheim and gazes in adoration
at Jerry Robbins). Bopping down to the Village, listening to Baez and Dylan–
harmonizing with acoustics until after midnight when I find someone to
hit the Blue Note with, and dig Coltrane and Miles. Then to the drug store
where all the guys and gals from the Actors Studio scream lines from those
Williams and O’Neill plays, pages and secretaries there too, pretending not
to know if those guys are acting or really dangerous fools who’ll mug them
on the way down to the subway. And I;m just smilin’, and tappin’ my foot.
Not wanting to go back to my shared one room place on the Lower East Side.
Living in the Honeymooner’s apartment but weirder. A lot of pot being smoked
on the sidewalk but I remember Devil Weed and stick to liquor.
Slick Madison Avenue types slummin’ down the Village some nights telling us
they’d gone to Harvard, Yale, Brown…that’s the clue to those Mad liars..for
heaven’s sake, do they think I haven’t seen Where The Boys Are in high school,
that I’ll fall for some dumb line like Yvette Mimeux did. I know I’m no Dolores
Hart either. But then, she succumbed to a convent. Good grief, she could live
a Princess Grace life and she chooses a nunnery. Not for me, boy howdy, I’ll find ART
here in the city and do it my own way, like any Texas girl
livin’ loud, singin’ long…finding my niche…or letting it find me
and I’m sure they will all find me:
Warhol, Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Sondheim, Previn, Sinatra…around
any corner, any day,
my break’ll come.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 2011 * All Rights Reserved