Tim Stafford
Anthony Bourdain Takes me to a Punk show in 1979
“This ain’t no Mudd Club, or C.B.G.B.”- Talking Heads
He walks with a junkie’s confidence
down streets that are as dark
as overlapping shadows
The popped collar of his leather jacket
is all that protects him from the freezing
wind that, though blowing from
seemingly all directions, does not
diminish his ability to light up
a fresh cigarette
I don’t know how many blocks
we’ve walked from his restaurant
in a not-cool part of Manhattan
to this wasteland on the Lower East Side
but he has already explained
the current state of punk rock
in New York City
What bands broke up, who moved,
Who OD’d, who died
He’s listed dozens of names both
popular and obscure, the A-sides
and the B-sides and I struggle to keep
up because he is obviously on
speed and I’m relieved he took
a bump with the boys on his
kitchen crew because I’m afraid
I wouldn't be able to turn him down
if he offered.
Down the block he dips,
Midconversation, into the doorway
of a broke down tenement
any paying tenant moved out of
years ago.
We climb at least as many floors
as blocks walked to get here
until we reach an
open unit turned
after hours spot
There is no cover charge for Tony
He tells me he brings in the artists,
punks, prostitutes, and dealers
to his restaurant on slow nights
Claims his spaghetti bolognese
helped the doorman deal with
being dope sick
The living room is packed
tighter than a fresh pack of smokes
I do my best to avoid eye contact with
the kid, maybe 12 years old with a
spiked dog collar who is growling
at random patrons who must be used
to this act because they don’t
give a shit
I’m surprised but relieved when the kid
climbs behind the drum set and counts
off 1-2-3-4 to kick off the first song
Tony finds me mid-song and yells
in my ear about how great this band is
then he asks if I can find my way back
without him because he’s gotta
find a guy about a thing
I tell him no problem
He thanks me
Hands me a bread roll
Hidden in his pocket, still warm
from the evening’s service
and he is off
“This ain’t no Mudd Club, or C.B.G.B.”- Talking Heads
He walks with a junkie’s confidence
down streets that are as dark
as overlapping shadows
The popped collar of his leather jacket
is all that protects him from the freezing
wind that, though blowing from
seemingly all directions, does not
diminish his ability to light up
a fresh cigarette
I don’t know how many blocks
we’ve walked from his restaurant
in a not-cool part of Manhattan
to this wasteland on the Lower East Side
but he has already explained
the current state of punk rock
in New York City
What bands broke up, who moved,
Who OD’d, who died
He’s listed dozens of names both
popular and obscure, the A-sides
and the B-sides and I struggle to keep
up because he is obviously on
speed and I’m relieved he took
a bump with the boys on his
kitchen crew because I’m afraid
I wouldn't be able to turn him down
if he offered.
Down the block he dips,
Midconversation, into the doorway
of a broke down tenement
any paying tenant moved out of
years ago.
We climb at least as many floors
as blocks walked to get here
until we reach an
open unit turned
after hours spot
There is no cover charge for Tony
He tells me he brings in the artists,
punks, prostitutes, and dealers
to his restaurant on slow nights
Claims his spaghetti bolognese
helped the doorman deal with
being dope sick
The living room is packed
tighter than a fresh pack of smokes
I do my best to avoid eye contact with
the kid, maybe 12 years old with a
spiked dog collar who is growling
at random patrons who must be used
to this act because they don’t
give a shit
I’m surprised but relieved when the kid
climbs behind the drum set and counts
off 1-2-3-4 to kick off the first song
Tony finds me mid-song and yells
in my ear about how great this band is
then he asks if I can find my way back
without him because he’s gotta
find a guy about a thing
I tell him no problem
He thanks me
Hands me a bread roll
Hidden in his pocket, still warm
from the evening’s service
and he is off
Tim Stafford is a poet and educator from Lyons, IL. He is the editor of the Learn Then Burn anthology series on Write Bloody Books. His first collection “The Patron Saint of Making Curfew” is being published November 2021 by Haymarket Books.