Trane…Miles…and Bill…

he’d spend hours by himself…away from the rest of the world…didn’t watch television…or…listen to the news on the radio…had had enough of the talking heads… pundits…politicians…salesmen pitching products in a global economy…just spent hours by himself…playing old records…Naima…Kind Of Blue…Sunday At The Village Vanguard…old songs without voices…no words just notes…just notes…

but he could hear sirens outside…cops chasin’ bad guys…ambulances carryin’ off the sick and the lame…gunshots fired throughout the neighborhood…an old dog howling for a treat…he’d turn Trane…Miles…and Bill up louder to tune the noises of the city out…but there’d still be traces…distant sounds of trains wailin’ in the night…a drunk yelling out for salvation…

and he’d look out the windows of his rented room…down alleyways…streetlights glowing in a yellowish hue…hightops flung over wires…parked trucks with flat tires…a cross atop a Catholic church…the blackness of night…no stars…no moon…dark skies…over a city where coffee is being poured by waitresses whose feet ache…taxi drivers looking for a faire…security guards asleep at desks…and bums going through garbage…in search of themselves…themselves…

hearing the sounds of Central Park West…So What…Gloria’s Step…he feels safe…locked away from the fools…madmen…whore’s temptations…junkies…freaks…spice addicts…crackheads…and the rest of whom roam these streets after midnight…vampires looking for a fix…we all have our needs…

so…he has locked himself away ’till morning…when he too will be among the living…or…are they faking it as well…the accountants…lawyers…lovers parting ways…trashmen on early dawn patrol…store owners washing down sidewalks from nighttime grime…vommit…cigarette butts…broken bottles…half eaten pizza slices…the sins of a city washed down the drain…only to be committed again…and again…and again…

he goes to the corner bodega to buy his morning coffee…does not look at, The Post…nor, The Times…merely stands there greeting the sun…being thankful to have survived another night of solitude…loneliness…locked away in his room…a self-imposed exile…

the morning brings forth another day…he will walk the city streets…spend hours with plugs in his ears…turning off the sounds of subway trains…busses going ‘cross town…the pedestrian’s on-going fight against traffic…whistles being blown…and barkers in Times Square calling out to tourists to see a show…live nude girls…Mickey Mouse…America on parade…

and he walks and he walks and he walks…’till it is time to go back to his rented room and listen to Trane…Miles…and Bill…

these days we spend…these days…

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