for Crab & Martin
                                  … there is much to do.

A little man tells us how to

        invest our money, my teeth gain a few
fillings, probably, at the dentist’s—who

        knows, maybe no drilling—but, as Xmas closes

in, some shopping, then I wait for Crab to
        show, mark the end of the year, an oasis

of drinks—a quiet bar my ideal—

        friends, artists together (bohos, hipsters)
Are we these things?  Variously.  The real

        hipster is probably Crab.  Though Martin

thought “beatnik” did usefully for us.  He’d
        distinguish himself from all of us ‘in

the business’—and tainted (went the joke) with

        the badges of long hair, weird dress, in-
nocently held opinions, ‘ideas’.  Stiff,

        coming from Martin, but when he didn’t mean it

dismissively it was affectionate.  If
        it came down to it he admired those things.  It

indicated partly a style he liked—”hipster”

        especially.  Martin Munz, artist,
had made the move to management. If a

        manager could look as artily nutty

as Martin—and as nonchalantly—(if the
        management class could be thought to know Marx thoroughly—

Benjamin, Karl Krauss)—Martin might approach the typical:

        & the world would be more crazily
uniform—a hip dystopia.  Difficult

        to imagine.  A special case.  A world of guys in shades,

women in louche combinations, nifty or
        somehow strikingly chosen revival shades

& patterns: a cartoon extreme enough

        for Martin to fit in—& fit in better, in most ways,
than me—though here Cath would make it—the stuff

        she wears looks cool, I think—and

Crab, too, fills that bill.  How hip must
        a poet look to get by?  and how hip (how hip can

he look) without feeling a caricature?—

        Cath looks good in her shantung green shirt, Ray-ban
glasses, slacks—and with, usually, coffee and a book before her.

        Her own book launched this week, Crab in attendance—

and tout le monde—where we made this date, one of a
        long series of ‘drink-and-dinner’s (and then—

further drinks) that we have, to an irregular

        schedule, to keep us together, drinking, talking.  There’s
the future before us—the past behind—Error

         (aesthetic or ethical) to avoid,

hope, plans, cheers, jokes and stories, music (there are
        music things to discuss, or to avoid

discussing—gigs that fall through—bands to put together:

        Crab, a working musician).  I will sit alone and, to avoid
being too drunk before my friend arrives—though there are

        those who would ask Would he notice?—

I’m drinking coffee, & staring vaguely—where a
        woman is walking by, or someone is

effortfully, or casually, parking—

        and thinking modern, writing this poem, which is
the mask / of my dream / of a gin and tonic, wherein

        I envisage how the night might go, recall

my teeth, the day—of dentist, of accounting
        by the accountant, Cath’s and my shopping—check the tall

guy approaching—(not as large as Crab)—

        and write it down.