dmseay

been ’round addicts my whole life…crackheads….speedfreaks…….junkies….whores….johns…things that go bump in the night….

drunks piling outta bars at four in the morning all over town….Uptown…Old town….Boys town….this town….is a lonely town….

and the smells of Spice…K2….whatever tag you go by….lingers everywhere….the air a constant funk….seen people crash hard…

swinging violently into space….don’t get near…punches thrown…kicks…the yelling…the screams….little babies watching while mom’s gotta mouthful under the El tracks….

done with this shit….the whole city’s become infested….maybe it always was…

it’s America….pick your poison….

it  comes down to a young woman sitting on a barstool nursing a beer …a practiced drunk….

she looks at me straight in the eye and says, I know from this day foward my life will be nothing more than shit, without a blink…without a squint…she states this just matter of factly….hopeless….the clean have taken over…

the kid knows the truth….they won. …and not only did they win….they flaunted it like an unruly biddy-league team after a wide margin victory….humiliating the opponent while dads in the stands yelled out, That’s my boy….

in a dingy tiled room with walls adorned by posters: EMPLOYMENT IS THE FIRST STEP  TO SELF-RELIANCE, a thirty year old black woman…dreads under a blue rag…rolls of flesh tightly packed in shiny garments….two tots screaming out for Mickey D’s….talks on a cell phone to baby’s daddy Buddha….

he’s laying on a couch at the crib watching a Jew named Maury publicly humiliate soul sister number one anxiously awaiting a DNA test….

get off your fat ass an’ get me three doubles at Checkers nigga, she orders Buddha.

the two-thousand year old philosopher pulls the cell away from the screaming voice, Nigga…my babies gotta eat motha’ fucker, nigga, motha’fucker, Buddha…what’s the difference….an errand-boy by any other name….

Buddha….Buddha…you listenin’….ten in the mornin’ an’ you got that rock blazin’ an’ shit, more yelling…..

nigga you don’t see me sittin ‘ ’round the house hittin’ rock….I’m providin’ for mines nigga….better wake-up niggas….food stamps ain’t gonna be ’round forever….

you listenin nigga, Virgin Mobile minutes ran out while a crack-pipe burned another hole in the foam of a sofa….

and Mary’s still in search of baby’s daddy…..all brought to you by Nescafe and American Life Insurance….

God said to Abraham kill me a son…why stop with one…Empire boys….we’re talkin’ empire….

Coltrane’s Central Park West played as I walked around Manhattan….

a joyous sound….The Village, Upper Westside, SoHo, Chelsea; tears rolling while strolling…tears clean as a baby’s….coming down a red, wind-blown face, unable to shut them off; let ’em roll….

if poverty teaches us anything….it’s that we’re human…prone to repeat the same actions….the same big mistakes over and over….wanting badly to trust and never able to slide home safely…you’re out….

poverty teaches hunger, humility, pain; nothing easy….a life waiting in lines; food stamp lines, soup lines, confessional lines a mile long for sins the impoverished are forced to commit; theft at Whole Foods….always absolved….

and grace is attained….delivering me to the other side…hold out for grace….just hold out for grace….she will save you everytime…..

the gas tank was always on E…..pushed….nothing focused….always asking for money….Western Union desks in grocery stores, pharmacies, bus depots….with northern accents and foreign tongues…..

slept in cars, cots, hospital beds, and bare grounds…..waiting and praying for the messiah to return….

these were the days of homeboys, cops with flashlights, greed, protests, the search for bathrooms in the middle of the night…..

it was the need for shelter…give me shelter….crackheads, hookers, monks, and as always we wish you peace….love….and…. soul…..

sleeping upright in a chair in the Bronx….among God’s chosen….not a dime….always wanting more….the first of the month never came fast enough…..

the constant search for gold….only to find it was emptied years ago by corporations, government officials, elected servants, and Wall Street warriors wandering around offices….making cold calls to Mrs. Zalnich of Buffalo, Get in on this now and I’ll send you a little somethin’ for the grandkids…..

these lucky few…always looking for opportunities….the spreading of wealth to be trickled down….

never did a rain pour…..

….sir…we don’t sell gizzards no more…., she stood at the register, what could I get for you?….

he pondered the $5 deals and scratched his goatee, you say no more gizzards….dat right?

yes sir, she couldn’t been more than eighteen, what could I get for ya?….

why you gotta rush me….why you be rushin’ me….I don’t like bein’ rushed….

sorry sir…didn’t mean to, a line was forming; nothing worse than angry people waiting for chicken….

and you ain’t got no more gizzards….dat right?….goddamn….you know we like gizzards and shit….

sorry sir….

I wants some gizzards….how ’bout you split up a chicken and fry me up some….

sir….I can’t do that….

den fuck this….

next….

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….