dmseay

there was a morn I wanted to wander…..solely….travels from east to west…with cities and sidebars.. hamlets ….romantic romps in piled dried leaves..golds…reds..yellows..my only friends in journeys across hurt land….

into a mountain’s bosom…..drinking cowboy coffee and taking-in greens and browns….old grays lingering from working days….talk of mending….one day….mending….

and there is frolic…gayity….ambiguous laughter in Northside neighborhoods as guns go pop to the South and West sides….1,000 murdered souls….all are guilty…from parents to patrol officers…city officials to gun dealers….to gang-bangers…to…ad nauseum….

jobs….jobs…jobs…dope deals under an arch…roulette down the street…and thefts of Swisher Sweets….the need for the dollar…the yelling…the screaming, “they killin’ our babies…they killin’ our babies….,” and where were you?….

no more…let me see no more…taken back to the leaf pile….to the colors….reds…golds….yellows…

maybe….trouble lurked there too…there is no certainty…not in a library…a school house….or….a gift from nature….

just stick a finger to the wind….and see where she blows….always seeking solace….always….

I hear the number 2 overhead…or…the number 5 coming into Pelham Bay Parkway….

bringing middle-aged white men of Manhattan Uptown for some strange….backpage beauties with fat-asses and promising careers….

chicks with dicks….swinging from rafters off White Plains Road….718-436-0021….call Papi…..

and….they do…like boys leaving for camp in the summer’s dew….only to return to wives….girlfriends….lovers….mothers….ashamed of underwater activities….

guilt….burdens on Sunday’s morning….or…Friday’s eve….Lord forgive these sins….lead me….blah….blah….blah…..

Generous men wanted…..good service ain’t cheap….top girls only….

now…..cry like a little bitch….

Let me tell ya, Telly said between slurps of chicken soup, They’re gonna’ get her….you watch….

Listening…can’t help but listen…the on-slaught, What Telly….what’re they gonna do?….

Him too, more slurps, They’re not goin’ afta him ’cause he’s black, again with the slurping, You watch…both of ’em are socialists…..

Telly….I’m a socialist….trust me…these two….not socialists…

what’d you call em then….?

Americans….

Just turned off everything automatic on this keyboard; no more to…which should be too….or….they’re which should be their…..

This automatic age….not an age of reason…nor language…or communication….just second guessing….

And shame on us for falling for it….this technological wonder….this always smarter than the next guy swagger….

I’m buying a typewriter…..an homage to a simpler time….when writing was a discipline….get out your dictionaries…..

We listened to Coleman Hawkins blow…Only Have Eyes For You…..playin’….where has that music gone to…

The same with Dexter Gordon…Trane…Getz…missed…all missed…from a time of jazz Buhddist meanderings in midnights across lands where moonlight is secondary to shades of neon….greens…reds…magentas….

Pianos plunked…. she looked in love…..I thought……lovely to be in love…..

And now a trio plays Hello Young Lovers…..And you meet not really by chance….

Miss this…..or…missed this….maybe romance is for youth…maybe it was only for those under a jazz spell….

And……jazz is dying…..it’s withering away….how I wish it would stay….

The Jamaican sat quietly…smoking a Remington….Madonna vogued…I thought…remembered….

Nothing present will do that…one tends to look back…at past lives…past loves…past sins…past…past..past..praying for a present….

The Jamaican sat stoically…he gave a peace sign…touched his forehead with light taps….a meditative state….

And my mind pondered…what that peace would be like…

I lay in bed with interviews running through my head….your thoughts on life….poetry…the workings of politics……

Asking questions ’cause no-one else will….an exercise in narcissism…wasn’t that always the case….

One night Donohue….the next Charlie Rose…..so smart…intellectual wits being played….wanting so badly..

Fame?…To be heard?….Recognized?…
Isn’t the craft enough?

Yes….yes….it should be….
The art….the work itself should sustain. …

But…this is America…..
Even artists are infected….
It’s called Cablelitus…..

The march in Manhattan….
Where’s everyone going..
Off to make dollars and sense..

As I watch what became of a few…
Unfortunate few….
Swollen ankles…blackened gums…

Will work for food…
Need a hand up….
Anything will help….

Millions walk -by….
Got mine….
Onward Christian soldiers….

To the least of my brethren. ..
To the least…
So be it..

looking at reciepts….
all declined. …
attempts made…
what’d you expect….

cheap noodles….
pans of water…
salt-based flavor packets….
this is living….

starve, the artist said….
I’d rather go hungry, a peace….
with paintings…sculptures…
poems rattle ’round the head….

this life was chosen….
it chose us….
who knows….
beats growin’ up….

I have just written my 200th poem/ flash-fiction piece in this collection. Thank you to all who read and have read the works; it is greatly appreciated.