Autobiography 1

by Gerard Malanga

I was born at 11 going on 12 with glimmers of a 4-year-old
hanging out with Mr. Rabbit & the hens,
with Romeo my white donkey friend.
He’d nibble at my ears as if whispering something comforting,
encouraging, funny.
I remember having dreams,
and it was like a rumbling ride on the 3rd Avenue El
right up until the end.
And I’d walk up the Fordham Road to the Valentine
and see a double-bill of O’Henry’s Best and The Man Between
with James Mason at his best.
I was a kid who went around talking to myself.
As I grew older not much has changed,
’cept now talking to my cats and in my head they’re talking back.
Is this how I remember things?
A typical mundane dream-like conversation
that would then break into a lilting song-and-dance.
That way of cinematic dreaming was disappearing even then.
My mentors have mostly died.  So, too, some friends.
I’m now the only link with my passing past.
Not much else to relate to or confuse.
Not much else but those hidden midnite matinees,
those neons blinking on and off and on.
Where is my muse?