dmseay

Resting in a Catholic Church basement ….reading poetry by Erica Jong….Surrounded by freshly released sex offenders, a few muggers, some thieves, and a couple of crazies…..Be still….just be still….

Next week is daylight savings time, The junkie quips, It’s done for Con- Edison so they can save electricity, Sips from a paper cup filled with cough medicine….

Really? a voice under covers asks….You buy that?

Yes….That’s why it is….That’s what I’d heard….I’m not going to question logic…

Erica was taking me all in….a beauty.. honesty….sexiest Broad to ever write the English language…

These corporations own the way we do everything….Even the country’s clocks….The springing ahead…..The falling behind….That’s what I’d heard…

Come-on Erica….Let’s get back to business…

The tables are lined-up….row after row….empty metal chairs waiting for the night-shift….the day-light panhandlers…the Broadway beggars…the Big Bus ticket hawkers….and the fairies, done with their daily doses of poppers and pixie dust….they’ll be amped-up ’til midnight….

And all the brothers wanna piece of the action….whatever can be scored…and newly arrived white boys who lost their way look-on…  This ain’t Kansas kids….

They walk amongst the world’s richest….rubbing shoulders with no-one… no straight looks…just mumbled doses of lost dignity from booze, K2, crack, meth, or…maybe a loss of hope from a broken bliss, a haunted home….So much more was dreamt….wished-for….

The metal chairs and dinner tables are lined-up for guests…..the door to the shelter  will be opened…All are welcomed.. 

Too many….too…too….too much…Loud noises….former in-mates turned outcasts….

Insults……Pissing for territory……Grown men rapping along to a song by a kid….

Some bitch did this……some hoe did that……Yelling out above techtronic beats, Nigga…you best be respctin’ my black-ass, A threat;come through with a hook or a blade?…..who knows.

Always the centers….the shelters….. .Bellevue’s Emergency Room……filled with talk…talk…
talk….talk….talk…..a tough guy’s ballad to all around him, Don’t be Fucking With Me MotherFucker, proving he’s the smartest, the toughest, always proving. 

Loudness… bouncing off slept-in metal chairs….cold tiled floors….walls keeping all in…..away from a now money moving Chelsea…..

Punk Rock died…Bop Jazz passed-away long ago don’t you know…..Replaced with condos….cute pork pie hats worn by kids who’ve never heard of Mingus…..Sorry Charlie…..You’re safe with me…..

Goodbye Pork Pie…..so long Bop….These  past stories and old characters are gone….And there is a loneliness in this current racket….I don’t belong….

Sitting at a drop-in center on 30th….among former inmates turned outcasts….

From across the street, the rue, she kept an eye on us all…..prospective customers….Men looking for a deal; who will buy?

Her thick mangled hair of black laid nonchalantly….constantly winking….not come hither; a come-on….give me a chance….a why not…look….you could do worse….

Winks, chatting away at imaginary  figures in Montreal’s hood of the hopeless, I’ve seen her before…..everyday….

It was in front of a liquor store she named a price, I’ll give you all of me for a six pack…all of me…

You got it sis….buy ya whichever…whatever you want….life’s a negotiation…..

With small hands and a slight meow…..she chose Budweiser….The King of Beers….tall boys….

Dirty looks from Asian business owners as we walked to a nearby park….They’re selling booze….she’s selling a body….what’s the difference….

A button on a tight blouse was undone, Wait, I told her, Just wait….open-up a beer and talk to me…..that’s what I want….talk…

A chuckle turned into laughter…..one beer….then another…She was in no rush…

I don’t know where my family is, She yawned, I gave-up a long time ago….I looked everywhere….they were never where I thought I left them….

I nodded….

Did you lose your family too?

I did Kathleen….I did…

I’m sorry….

So am I….so am I…

Her final swig was taken…the tin placed neatly in a sack and thrown away…,It’s just that simple, She throttled my lap, Just that simple…

And then, a kiss on my mouth much needed was given…

Thanks Kathleen.

Standing in-line….she runs her hands through her own hair…..maybe….just maybe no-one else ever did… Let’s not get messy….

Skinny jeans….skinny dress pants…skinny kids….The hip….the uber cool….how long will it last….

Young men in mascara….waxed eye-brows….coiffed cuts…..all tuned-in…to the newest…..the best….the most spoiled brats in God’s great universe…

Hey you kids…..Get off my damn lawn…

She left without a word…not a sound….silence from a family dis- section years ago….Everyone to their corners….

No calls….numbers were lost along the way….along with photographs and memories of stretching a budget….making beans and hamhocks for five….sopped- up in cornbead…cast in an iron skillet..

And there was Southern harmony….played- out in a backyard garden turned football field in the fall….brownies for all, Here….take home some squash for your parents, Every kid gotta bag full…

But years went by…..sins emerged….secrets….accusations…falsehoods…..Family politics…the last bastion of Southern life….

Pride cut deep….but….whose?….a middle child daughter….believing a better deal was to be had….

Two older sons…..with safes of their own….locked…..kept out of sight…..

And this nomad….never landing…never ending…..just propelled into madness fueled by suicide attempts….hospitalizations …..park benches and homeless shelters; maybe it was my fault….

Yet…the angel….the last in the line-up….whose laugh was honest….whose tears….real…..He knew the truth….

The truth….there was never enough. Not for us….not for her….And that’s as Southern as it gets…..There’s a reason Faulkner drank himself to death….

On Lexington they walk….strut….dance….daily….to business meetings….luncheons…nooners….God knows what sins are comitted in a Manhattan mid- morning….

She came towards the mob….face buried…. down… under thick blonde hair like Harlowe….striking a pose as all walked around her… a statue stationed in Midtown…Watch your step boys…

Well….atleast she was reading a paper…

Big Joey lumbered into the shelter…olive skinned…..somehow stepping Flamenco. …

How are you my friend?….I am Jose the Spaniard, a piss-yellow smile, And you?…

I am Basque, extended a hand….

Oh….we are brothers, the fat man said, We are familia….

Uh…..no….We are not….

Oh yes, He encouraged,…No difference….

Oh yeah?….Tell that to fucking Franco…..

Central Park West plays through headphones..and..there is  peace….a calm that mad dashing slashers of the night can’t take away….

Coltrane blows transendence.. resurrection…leaving all this….this….what is this….

It is fear….anger…insanity …muscle aches from Seroquel….thoughts of nothing….and nothing is worse than nothing….

Today there is salvation through a set of headphones blowing Central  Park West…..

Tomorrow…..who knows….

The numbers were rolling-in on CNN; the Shiksa had ’em, the Jew never had a chance….

Look at that, the Jew squeaked, Would you look at that, CNN reports another state for St. Hillary,  and another, and another…

She hates Jews, a drink of Guiness, When I was over in Israel… fighting in the army.
…that broad was shaking hands with Yasir Arafat….

You mark my words….she gets elected….goodbye guns…..goodbye
freedom of speech, He took a breath, And she will try her damndest to get rid of Israel…..She’s the fucking devil I tell you…..

A call came in on the cell, Yeah….sure…right…..yeah….I’ll be there…..

What?

A rally for Hillary…..they’re  paying $50 a head…..Why not…..