dmseay

we sat on the concrete patio in lawn chairs; nylon stitched; very colorful….orange, yellow, green stripes…

mom and I used to sit out here, the old man said, sure do miss her, he himmed and hawed, sure do miss her…..

he kept repeating himself…each time as if it were a new statement, sure do miss her…..we used to go for rides….Amish country….we love  that broasted chicken….go in the house and tell her we’re ready….

she’s not here dad….she’s not here…she’s gone….

that’s right…she’s gone….she’s gone, he paused, where’d she go to?

I don’t know pop….I don’t know…

she used to flirt over keyboards….messages sent to men seeking love….some kind of affection….the big pay-off….

figured there was no harm in it…words….just words being exchanged between adults…a man and a woman seeking comfort….

not seeking arms to be held by…nor a mouth to be kissed…just typed-up words….something to hold them over…..kept her happy….

one man wanted more than words…wanted to sweep her off her feet….promises were made..
proposals daily from his finger-tips….

said he was madly in love….Couldn’t live without her….she blushed…laughed…text him back, You dont know what love is…..

it struck him; hit square in the glass jaw on the right side; broken, shattered, bits and pieces….

I have captured myself…the world has not held me….that I have done thoroughly, the wait was over; quietly he sat; dumbfounded….

all this time….wasted with anger…rage…hate…at a planet of people….accused of crimes against me, he scoughed….

I’ve trapped myself….murdered me…done away with my soul….and for what?, a drag on a smoke, all to avoid self-blame….

but, he hated Ayn Rand; disillusioned with the thought of self reliance solely; no need for assistance….a minch….

I never knew what I wanted till it was too late….success is now a young man’s game, he wiped sweat off the wrinkled brow, it’s too late…

the mattress sagged in the middle, books by Dostoevsky lay around a small room in piles, oh my, he puzzled, oh my….what have I done…..

a pistol sat on a dresser……

the end.

reading Nexus…rediscovering myself…with Miller….through Miller….

the want of an artist…man…to be free in what pleases….the disciplines of craft….stealing lines…listening….

to hear all around….men…women…the business of business in a country based on business…but…what makes business business….

maybe it is the life of a vagabond….to eek out meager wages…the total focus being art….

can that be done in America without insanity creeping-in….

maybe Paris….or Prague….or….who knows where….is the next scene….

the pen awaits….

he kept looking at the bedroom door, I keep thinkin’ she’s comin’ out….but…she’s not….

the paneled piece had been shut for a couple of months;since her passing…

fifty-seven years, he stared, fifty-seven years and then…
gone…just gone….just vanished….

more Pepsi was poured over watery ice, it just happened so quick…one day we were talkin’….and then….nothin’….not a sound….

no emotion had hit me about mother’s death….not sadness nor celebration of a life…just that something had stopped a long time ago….and now…it had really stopped….

um…I sure do miss her, the old man said with a rub of the eyes, I sure do miss her….

did you take your medicine dad?…

yes…I did….don’t know what good it’ll do….we all gotta die some day….

listening to rain….it is not forced…
no-one tells it what to do…
the water just falls….gushes….pours…

a coolness comes afterwards…
even indoors it is felt….
and green glistens in darkness…
out the window it is seen…

I want to roll in the wet grass…
naked….I want to take in the rain….
why not…
they think I’m crazy anyway….

listening to rain….it is not forced….
no-one tells it what to do…

there was no other choice…
bud…or….bud lite….
her…or…him….

no participation…..you can’t complain……
your vote matters….
let your voice be heard….

no….again….no…
my voice says stop….
a pox on both houses….
no differences….

it is theater for groundlings….
produced by billionaires….
a fool’s practice….
I’d rather throw tomatoes….

two cheerleaders for the rich…
a made-up tale to be told….
written by Machiavellians…..
we’re doomed….

thinkin’……of headin’ down to Texas, the old man said; somewhat to himself; people had stopped listening….

but….what do I get in return, ran fingers through greasy gray, what is my return on investment….

couple a gals down there I knew in high school, took a sip of Pepsi, they never call….why should I waste my time?…why?

He stood-up and adjusted his sagging pants; dress blues….sat back down, awe, he stammered, Fuck it….just the hell with it….
no return on investment….

it’s nice to lay in the dark…
with sheets so soft.. piled pillows under heavy head….

symphonic snoring to gods….
thanking them for another day…
eyes shut……away….away….away from burdensome light….

to stay in this state…..
this peace….
a holy place….
giving….not taking….

stop taking….shhhh…..shhhhh….stop taking….

two men ate lunch….
a father….a son….a mother gone….
pimento cheese sandwiches…
Pepsi and chips the color orange…

the son spoke slowly….fractured speech….took deep swigs of pop…
cleared his hoarse throat…
asked for more….

wanna go for a ride, the old man asked….
the kid nodded his head in agreement….smiled….

maybe we could go look for mom….what’d you think?….

maybe, the man-child responded, maybe so….