222 west 23rd street, ny, ny
I am the Chelsea Hotel
red brick walls wrapped in black iron lace
memory of a thousand parties still rocking the staircase that runs through my heart all the way to the starlit roof
where Merce's dancers once kneeled to face the dawn.
Hash smoke in the hallways
ghost of Janis Joplin
wailing the blues in Suite 411
and the French girls in 909 just about fine
pale junky arms raised up at twilight
invoking the 'ghosts of electricity' above the broad avenue
Patchen's wife folds her stockings on the bedrail
and he is moved to write
23rd street runs into heaven
Credits: For the 2006 People's Poetry Gathering, City Lore and the Bowery Poetry Club invited New Yorkers to take on the personas of their favorite New York City places.