dmseay

I’m tellin’ you dat Jesus was gay…don’t believe me…tell me what kind of a brotha’ would hang wit’ a hoe and not get ’em any…mother-fucker havin’ manni-peddi parties wit’ Mary Magdelene and shit and what not…turn dat Roman Empire upside mother-fuckin down wit’ his queer ass talk…you don’t believe me…

now you take Mohammed…dat’ man be fuckin’ everything in the tri state area…71 virgins lined-up for that mother-fucker just to get him started and shit…be fuckin’ sista’s left and right…bitches be drier den’ a desert when he get through wit’ ‘dem….white man been scared ever since…dey’ knows dat’ nigga gotta dick on him…scared dem’ mother-fuckers ta’ death when Mohammed come to town…women be linin’ up an’ shit…

and den you got Vishnu…Mother fuckin’ dot-head couldn’t get laid if he paid for it with a bag of gold and seven mother-fuckin lives to spend and an eternity of ever lastin’ peace…who da’ fuck he foolin’…

dey’ given out meds yet?….

resting my head on the belly of the Buddha…my soul taking breath from Kerouac…Whitman…Henry Miller…I was 33…the year Christ crucified…

finding peace in words…sentences tripping off the tongue…read aloud on street corners…in bars…in bedrooms that go for $150 a week with the toilet down the hall and Carl the Cockroach serving as your bellhop…

Cancer…Capricorn…Dharma Bums…I sing the body electric…notes hit in accordance…sympatico…all poets come together…prophets preaching while only a chosen few hear the wisdom…2000 years of thoughts and meditations moving among us…who will take heed…

the mystics…the magicians…placing wonder before our eyes…and the non-believers scoughing, I won’t be fooled…not I…

and in the corner of a church a book of poems by Dumas lay in wait to be read…and it continues to lay there…no pages turned…

for shame….

we made love when shots fired in Dallas…

again during the night in Baton Rouge…

and yes..you held tightly when murder in Minnesota was committed…

this world was shut-out of a bed we share…no warning signs…nor secret codes followed…panic stricken screams not heard…lights did not flash… horns…not a sound…

in thin blue sheets…wrapped ’round each other…listening… On Green Dolphin Street…you allowed me that luxury…thank you…

did not want night to end…kept safe…taken away…

let them kill each other…

i shall stay in darkness with you…

I told the therapist of my anger issues…strained family relations…inability to keep a job…telling the masses and all God’s children unfiltered thoughts that will one day place me in a prison cell…

you know, the therapist said proudly, You can catch more bees with honey…, a smile…a flip of the grey streaked hair..

the degrees were on the wall…undergraduate work…a Masters…licensed in this state…licensed in that…surely one would be impressed…

so…let me get this straight, both hands placed to temples, Seven years of school with a Masters and that’s the best you can come-up with….really..

she smiled…began to speak…, well… the old saying…

Yes, ran my hand against my neck quickly, You think Freud and Jung came up with that theory…

David….

no no…I can hear them now…Carl…I have come to zee only conclusion zat von can come to in zee field of psychoanalytic vork and zat is dat von can catch more bees vit da honey zan vitout…now…go to zee corner and get me anutter 8ball…

David…I am saying…

you’ve said enough…you’re whole profession has said enough..

the on-going switch…from on to off…of sadness to elation…the wait for impending doom…and meanwhile around the world…

thoughts of hitting the road…running from fear…not towards clarity…always on-the-go…a fool’s errand…perhaps…

and what is in the next town…me…still me…

with nothing changed…same ideas…same thoughts…same old hat…

just different avenues….a new waitress to pour a cup of lite…brighter pictures on this menu…eggs benny is eggs benny…a stain is still a stain..

and this soon will be left behind too.

 

 

 

there were always questions…from lovers…brothers…sisters…and mothers…dads dwelling on the biggest question of all, What are you doing?….

society’s questions of right and wrong…what’s what…whose that…where are you…when will you….oh to run and hide…

former bosses who questioned every move….professor’s and proofreaders on-going questions, What do you know, not much…not much…

questioned by authorities of whereabouts on the night of November, 17, 1967…still in the womb officer…still in the womb…

I should have just stayed there…kept quiet…alone with my thoughts…a continual state of peace…avoiding questions…

Saturday morning’s stack of papers were dropped at my door by four…awaiting delivery in the cold dawn….come rain or sleet or snow or…corporate America’s demise…or or or…you get the picture…

looking at that bundle through young blood-shot eyes in a hungover haze…early morn beer in hand and an attitude of defiance, Fuck you Journal Gazette…Fuck you indeed, mumbled…swig of beer and Zippo lit…let the Royal Rumpus begin…

and watching the blaze of 34 newspapers…ashes dancing…so was I…to the joys of procrastenation…the simplicity of just not caring…burn baby burn…

pop open another…stolen from dad’s stash…thinking of leaving…running away…never returning to the small town…the limited visions…only wanting to dream…and dream and dream…of West coast beaches and punk rock life…here’s to going nowhere….

then… the call downtown…the covering of tracks…, Bob…you’re not going to believe this…but my papers haven’t been dropped-off yet…you know I run a tight ship Bob…this will affect my tips…

I was assured another stack was on the way…a two hour delay of delivering important information and funny pages…all for what…

per chance to dream….

they got this studio out in the desert…in Nevada…New Mexico…hell…maybe Utah…you know those Mormons could be involved, the old man wiped speckled white gravy off his BUILT FORD TOUGH tee-shirt…mumbled, Son-of-a-bitch, to himself..
dunked a napkin in ice water a second time…

that’s where they filmed that Moon landing at…somewhere out there…in the desert, took a swig of coffee…wiped his paunch again…

you’ll never beat the government…hell…they know all the tricks…have for years…no gettin’ ’round that, a George Jones song played in the background…

and then they went and made this colored boy in charge of everything…well…he thinks he’s in charge…he ain’t in charge o’ nothin’…

hell…I’m surprised they let that boy live after all he was tryin’ to do… all that anti-American talk, wiped his thin lips, He could wind-up out in the desert too if he don’t watch it…it ain’t too late you know…

the old man took a bite of egg and gravy…adding a bit of biscuit to a full mouth…looked around him at  tables….a burning fireplace…old picture ads for Mountain Dew…

yea…out in that desert is where they do all these things, he paused…opened a package of cream…

You ever listen to Art Bell?….

this thing I’m tellin’ you…the thing is…and listen good…nothing matters…you get that…it is all temporary…this thing…

you may think it’s over…done and finished…put away like an old man in his final days…you think he’s resting comfortably…uh? …..think again…think…again…

this thing….this obstacle that seems to hold you back…this is on you my friend…you…no one has a knife to the throat…a gun to your head…there are no counting the hours til…til what…salvation arrives…for you…for me…guess again…

it is temporary…like a good dose of…of…you name it…nothing lasts forever…and if it did…what a truly miserable existence this would be…

might as well jump in front of a train…down battery acid…pick your poison…this is what I’m talking about…

just believe that the end of this never ending abyss is coming soon…and then what…

hooray…
onto the bonus round…

and I’m reading Simic..thinking of the poet’s life…of words…of listening…watching…recording…always looking….

in parks…taverns…behind dumpsters…confession booths…Buddhist gardens…public bathrooms…day labor halls at four in the morning…a city bus…

the unfolding of life….to tell the story truthfully….nothing disingenuine…don’t leave anything out….placed on the page…

nothing ties…nor binds…nothing held…no tricks up the sleeve…just honesty…muti-layered…rich…complex….honesty…

this is poetry…it is not a blog or a brand….a gimmick…there are souls out there dying of hunger…

feed them…