Driving alone south of Market Street, I see the place Susan told me
Once was called “The Barking Lot” & has now become
Instead, something called MOTOJAVA: Motorcycle Repair &
Espresso Bar. This is my idea of pure heaven. I mean, really, who wouldn’t
Want to stop & go in? The smell of leather, grease, & espresso in the air—
Every Bad Boy’s dream cologne—just mix in the rank whiff of
Dried sperm & you’ve got the James Dean scent of the century. Then out
Of nowhere, sweet Jesus, who do I see pulling in on his Ducati but one of my
Fave poets, Frederick Seidel, helmetless in California, hair perfect, gleaming
In his handmade Italian suit—gleaming, in fact, every bit
As elegantly as his bike. I can’t hear what he’s saying to the mechanic,
But they’re trading these quick Italian shrugs; you know, like, who the fuck
Except God really knows what’s wrong with this bike—?? Then
Seidel drifts off toward the espresso bar & orders a machiatto with an extra
Shot & a splash of hazelnut!! Hazelnut? So I go right up & say, Man,
I’d have never guessed you were a hazelnut kind of guy—
& he looks at me like I’m about to dunk
A dog turd in his java & points over to the door where a chauffeur has just
Stepped in, blond hair stuffed up underneath his cap, just like the guy
In The Conformist, & Seidel says, It’s for her…I’d never drink anything
With those bullshit flavors—& just then the barrista slides him a pure
Doppio espresso with a slim silver pitcher of steamed milk on the side.
Her?—I ask, looking back at the chauffeur
Who slowly takes off her cap & shakes out her blond hair, & Jesus-be-God,
It’s Sharon Stone, & I say, Sharon, What are you doing here? The last time
I saw you at Chinois you told me you were moving to Gstaad! Then, pleased-
Be-the-angels, she rips off her blond wig—& standing there
In chauffeur/Stone drag just laughing her ass off is my old friend
Lynn Emanuel, saying, You see, when you step into the movie of your own
Poems, anyone can enter. So Seidel knocks back
His doppio & sneers at us with some approximation of approval & contempt—
You two sentimental assholes, he says, walking over to his newly tuned Ducati,
You’d better learn to hate the company of poets. The real ones, he adds, slowly
Climbing on & firing up the Ducati—looking for all the world like somebody
Being lit & filmed by Antonioni—All of the real ones, he says, still ride alone.