Naked & Lunch — two disparate ideas come together
What It Is, Isn’t, And There You Have It
A tale told in metaphor
I had a naked lunch once in my youth. A bit of foolishness masquerading as a meal. Set neatly on a table with no one there but me. Staring at unused place settings. Wondering who was missing and why they weren’t there. Or more precisely, why I was.
I trusted you, the man said to no one in particular. I thought you represented my best interests, my future – all those little moments we string together with gold filament and call a life. I thought you cared?
A meal is a form of worship. No stained glass. No incense burning or prayers echoing in the corners — just a ritual. A gift from the Gods, residing in a nearby kitchen, an act of transcendence as we nibble and nod and dip our spoons into something unknown while casting our eyes in quiet anticipation of one of the guests leaping up, throwing the table into the air, as words and dishes come crashing down around us — their turn at loyalty, withheld for far too long.
You said you would show me the way. A path that few others had traveled. Instead, I ended up on the BQE with ten thousand initiates all tuned to the same channel. Mumbling prayers and inspirations as their cell phones blew up.
A naked lunch is a fine repast. Exposed and unadorned, organic and filled with possibilities, none of which may come to pass, as it is but empty calories. A display, to attract the unattractive, the resolute lost in search of expiation. I ate that lunch with both hands and pushed every crumb, every meaningful morsel into my mouth and closing my eyes — wished for something more elegant. A Nathan’s hot dog, a vendor’s pretzel at Prospect Park. A kiss from the fine young lady behind the counter at Enzo’s Bakery, as she slid a cruller across the polished glass.
I had great hopes in my youth. Aspirations of grand design, drawn in crayon on construction paper during kindergarten recess. I was a hero, a conqueror of worlds — as yet to be defined. I was Everyman — with cape and ring and fire in my belly. A comet dragging a universe behind me as I whistled the theme song to the Andy Griffith Show and smiled in quiet recognition of the greatness that was me.
I returned from a vacation in Brooklyn and saw a prompt from J.D. Harms that struck a chord. Beat poets, New York City, and the dark corridors of urban living, all came together — along with a bit of jet lag —to produce this hybrid poem. A sort of sideways homage to William S. Burroughs and his take on the city that never sleeps.