I WAS A CLOSET WOMAN (on CD)
PASSING THROUGH EL PASO
(on CD)
THE WIND OF EASY
(on CD)
FIRST MEETING
MY PERSONAL WANTS TO GET PERSONAL WITH YOU
TRANSFORMATION
(on CD)
WHAT'S A BI-CUSPAL WOMAN TO DO?
I JUST NOTICED
ON THE OCCASION OF MY LOVER'S CELIBACY
SHORT-SHORTS
OUR MOTHERS - OURSELVES
THE INTERVIEW
THE WILD MAN OF NINTH AVENUE
(on CD)
MR. L.A.
(on CD)
THE SINGER
(on CD)
SERGI'S SURGERY
(on CD)
ANGEL
*PUSHING FIFTY - AS FAR AWAY FROM ME AS POSSIBLE

THE WILD MAN OF NINTH AVENUE

usually has yesterday's lunch enshrined on his lapel.
"Gotta dollar?" He rasps.
He's a high-class beggar,
wears snakeskin pants and Cole Haan
shoes that may have once walked Wall Street.
Now he hangs out in the lobby of my bank,
accosting unwary ATM users and raving
about the evils of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
It doesn't matter where I go:
the newsstand, the drugstore, the flower shop, Manhattan Plaza.
"Hey lady, gotta dollar?"
Last week he was terrorizing my local hang-out,
lurching from table to table,
some unpleasant secretion emerging from his nose,
intimidating the patrons into handing over $2.50.
When the maitre d' objected,
the wild man punched him in the nose.
He spent the night in jail for that.
Next day he was back,
grinning from the front page of my New York Post,
headlining the latest article about the "helpless" homeless.
It was then I learned the wild man's name:
Frank. It figures.
Everyone I have ever disliked has been named Frank.
Uncle Frank who pinched me
with his adult hands when I was eight.
English teacher Frank who humiliated me
for pointing out the "patently obvious."
My fiancé Frank who married himself.
Frank was at my bus stop yesterday.
There was something icky
protruding from his beard.
"Hey lady, gotta dollar?"
I rummaged through my pockets.
"Frank," I said,
"Here's my heart."
(circa 1991)