Izzy’s in a typical trick’s motel when I finally track him down
living off Dunkin Donuts and really bad speed
and playing his guitar for twenty hour stretches.
He’s gotten good. Really good. If he can move
beyond the Keef affectations, this might just work.
That’s what I tell him, straight out. I say
“Dude, drop the fucking voodoo feather shit that’s
hanging from your ear, stop talking like Dick van
fucking Dyke and maybe we can do business.”
“Oh yes?” says Iz in this really fruity voice, raising an
eyebrow like he’s James Bond or something.
“Well, that would be just tremendous and delightful”
and we fall about laughing on the bed-spread illuminated
pink by the textbook neon outside that flashes intermittently
and I say “I guess we’re not in