Grays Ferry

The name itself is dismal. Stumbling Into adulthood, I spent a year there, On a narrow, much interrupted street. My austere block had a single, sick tree. Tim Fender and I rented a row house For only 50 bucks a month. Basically, It was a shell, bought by this gay man Who thought he would fix it up, but Grays Ferry made him so depressed, He just had to bolt. Being Catholic Irish, This hood couldn’t have been congenial To someone gay, unless he’s a priest. Still, I seriously doubt the neighbors did Or said anything. They certainly didn’t Show hostility to Tim or I, two art fags. Everyone suffered in Grays Ferry, and In 1986, it literally stank, for there were two Huge lots filled with garbage, thanks to a Twenty-day strike by Philly’s garbage men. I had left art school without a degree, For why borrow money to learn painting From all these failed artists? Why not just Slink somewhere and paint? Though I never Amounted to crap as a painter, I’ve taught Myself to write, sort of, instead of hocking My life to a bank, just so I could be misled And muddled by stunted or puffed up typists. That year, I manned up and mainlined Celine’s Death on the Installment Plan and his Journey To the End of the Night