Red table-cloths in the sunset,
Dan Flavin’s pink-red Flourescent
    Sculpture
In Taylor Mead’s Corner,
Warm elegant fireplace glow
for the Back Room.
Volatile crowd generally Subdued
On juicy well-cooked shrimp and
    big many dressed salads
        your Choice,
Suddenly Andrea “Whips”
    Feldman, future suicide, on
    table with bodice bared screaming “Show Time!”
Something going on Under a
    Table or two, God knows
        what!?
Jane Fonda and Roger Vadim
    Slumming with
Candy Darling and Andy
    Warhol Farthingale,
Hunched ver the round table
    in the corner looking anonymous.
Taylor Mead shouting at Bill
    Graham “You owe me 30,000
        Dollars!”
    Mistaking Bill Graham
    for Ben Barenholtz who
probably does owe him 30,000 plus
    for unlimited showings of
famed badly edited film “Brand X”
conceived and mutilated
by Wynn Chamberlain,
hanger-on of the Art World,
    Hangers-on not allowed
in the Back Room, or in
front door by suave
    magical Mickey Ruskin,
Some sneak by and float
    like seaweed around real
    denizens, choking off oxygen.
Nights of swimming upstream
    against seaweed.
Taylor tells David Bowie
    he doesn’t like him, because
    he doesn’t know how to smile.
Taylor orders famed Italian movie
    star to leave Back Room, because
Movie Star objects to Taylor’s
    Fans sitting on floor around
    their table. Taylor also owes
    Movie Star money: “Get
    out of here you second-rate
    Italian Movie Star!” he
    shouts at fleeing figurine.
Back Room takes it in its
    Stride.
In Long narrowish (because
    of Bar) Front Room,
    famed artists John
    Chamberlain and Neil
    Williams are mixing it
up fisticuff-wise.
Finally reconcile and
Each grabs a bottle of
    Martel, or Grand Marnier,
And Splits (Put it on the
    Charge!)
Delicious hot snacks appear
    in the afternoon for business
    and starving artist types who
    order only a glass of water.
Mickey would like Some
    Bills paid! I come up
    with a thousand some
    years’ ends; if the family
    comes through.
“Mickey,” I say “It’s not all
of us who owe you money
that are ruining you — some
of your “help” is screwing
you out of thousands.
He calmly answers: “I know,
Taylor; the last four years
has just been a party for my
    friends.”