The “Old City,” 1987
   

We’d dress in our best black
and hit the Old City,
first to Ella Guru’s, where we 
saw Sun Ra and then onto
Annie’s, a hip jazz joint where
we’d imbibe vodka tonics 
and scotch and snicker at 
the yuppies looking at us
from the corners.

Are those people wearing
black lipstick and nail 
polish with mascara?

Why, yes, we were. Not 
new or shocking, newbies. 

After getting toasted, we’d then 
cross Jackson Avenue
to Manhattan’s and
slam down tequila shots
while Frank, the 
manager, stood glaring
and grinding his teeth,
anxious that we not drive 
away the pretty people.

Soon on to Planet Earth,
a goth/industrial club
that catered to us like
other bars catered to
their own devotees
and where we spent
most of our lives.
Popping pink
Magnum 357s, 
we’d writhe to the
sounds of Bauhaus,
Sisters of Mercy, Ministry 
and Skinny Puppy. Fights 
would erupt, people would 
get sick and pass out, Chuck-
The-Owner would throw a
cokehead out the second
floor window onto a parked
car below on the street and 
once we watched Melanie 
get fucked standing upright 
on the back third floor landing, 
wearing a wig to avoid recognition. 
(Didn’t help and not that such
an act was remotely rare or anything.)

By 4am, sweating and
mascara running, we’d
head for Vic & Bill’s
to nosh with the drag
queens and bikers before 
going to Amy’s to fall 
onto futons, then get up at 
noon and move on to
another Knoxpatch party.