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Jimmy the Spic was dealing pills at a rented table in Mickey D’s; a small coffee buys you thirty minutes…..

The wiry Puerto Rican with the drawn inverted pyramid face slurped sugar from packets hid under his hood; always ask for extra…

You wanna sleep, he rattled off in a quick harsh tongue, I got something just for you amigo….

No…I’m fine Jimmy….just fine…

I got this Trazodone at Bellevue….bottles and bottles of the shit….I been storing up…..

Volume, volume, volume, Jimmy…passing the savings on…

To you man…I look out for all my customers….rich, poor, white, black….

What fucking rich people do you sell to…

Wall Street wives….marketing people…

They got insurance Jimmy…they don’t need you….I’m crazier than ten whores on crack….but, I’m not stupid…

I see….

Yeah….you see….time’s up Jimmy….

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It is winter in New York City…. the temperature has finally hit freezing; this is normal….

People trample upon each other through DO NOT WALK signs…..looking down at colored mini screens….accents of Russian, French, Middle Eastern, The Bronx, and the almost gone, but not forgotten Brooklyneese, bounce off tongues as cop whistles are blown, and horns are honked; this is normal…..

Guys with cut-off legs begging from a concrete floor, homeless vets asking for help, a sideshow here, a three ring circus of loud mouthy Puerto Rican girls struttin’ their stuff for young bloods; always on the hunt for cunt; this is normal….

Knicks hats tilted, gay boys at Parsons sporting Nets, Yankees, Rangers gear……walkin’ with an affected priss…. heads bopping……bodies weaving….. and Chinese break dancers collecting bills; this is normal…

New York in December and a chilly wind blows off the pond…people are miserable….trash smells up side streets…and white smoke blows from an orange ConEd street tube; a new pope will be announced at noon……..this is normal.

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a love supreme….a love supreme….a love supreme, Coltrane and his crew prayed into the night while Jesus, Judas, and Mary drank from the cup…

dancing, hands interlocked, hips gyrating, and kisses given freely at St. Pete’s Place… no cover required… all were invited….

we sure did stir up some shit, Jesus drank… toasted to all in the crowd….Vishnu, Buddha, Mohammed, Confucius, Whitman, Theresa… the usual suspects raised a glass…..

while the boys drank and mended wounds, Mary went into a wild trance…..a love supreme….a love supreme…a love supreme…arms flailing, head bobbing to beats… mouthing words, I love you, to Jesus……he winked… nodded yes to this woman who gave her all….

she wants you, Judas laughed, slapping soul brother number one on his back…..

she always did…..

a love supreme….a love supreme…a love supreme….a love supreme….a love supreme…..

> A Love Supreme was recorded by Coltrane in Dec. ,1964 and released in February of 1965.

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Fat Azi stood at the register; protected from the thugs, the gangbangers, the stickup men, those that pack, and those without a cent in a holey pocket.

Fried chicken, fried fish, French fries, fried okra, fried pies, fried, fried, fried….welcome to Kennedy’s Chicken in The Bronx on Hunts Point….nothing special ’bout the specials…

Gimme three pieces ah chicken and a red drink motherfucker…..the blurry eyed black man stated as fives, singles, and quarters slipped through greasy hands and hit the tile floor…bing…bing…bing…

You get three piece special….a foreign tongue replied through the filtered hole…

No goddamnt..that aint what I said bitch….gimme three piece ah fried fuckin chicken and a red drink…..bitch

I call you bitch…I call you mother fucker….three piece deal is less money….I save you…

You save me motherfucker….I was saved by Jesus along time ago you Mohammed fuckin bitch….now make my chicken you Arab motherfucker…

Fuck you….I say fuck you…

Dats big talk behind dat glass….

Get out….get out….of my…

You get out motherfucker…I was here first….aint dat a bitch…..all I want is some morherfuckin fried chicken….and this Pakistani mother…..

You get out now….I said…

I’ll see ya nigga ass out in the street bitch…

(And then the next customer stepped up)

I want three pieces….

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Coltrane blew Naima on a Parisian jazz station while a homeless Jew ate a sausage biscuit from Mickey D’s in Herald Square.

Its 63 degrees in December, NYPD TERRORIST TASK FORCE cops on corners, an immigrant seeks out comfort in hiding, and the mayor’s a Red Sox fan; strange times.

And here I sit….drinking rented coffee and completely at peace with all that is America.

The Christmas commerce, the coiffed fundamentalist telling his flock that Jehovah on high wants you to be rich, successful, and completely comfortable; no suffering required.

All just fits….every intricate part…the rich…the poor…the dreamers… the “losers,” the promises, the miscues…and jazz from a Paris station….who knew….go figure….

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It’s Christmas Eve and Rickie Lee Jones keeps singing as people carry bags, children saunter by with painted faces, and squirrels beg with a smile in Union Square, I and Bragger and Jr. Lee…

Crying comes easy……it’s up…..it’s down…racing thoughts…wishing and watching….wishing and watching…… It’s wanting to leave and needing to stay…..everything is temporary…the only constant is change, take me back…to Coolsville…said take me back..

Never ever knowing…..that’s the hard part….knowing yourself….knowing your surroundings…the joy of knowing nothing at all, that’s the way we always thought it would be…

Take me back to Coolsville……said take me back…take me back…

Take me back to Coolsville……

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Hats, gloves, socks, bars of soap, hotel bottles of shampoo, panties of different colors, baby powder, condoms packed in wrappers baring the NYC logo, a few cookies, and candy canes were laid out on folding tables at the drop-in center; Christmas came early.

The mass of goods was picked through quickly and thoroughly by men, women, blacks, whites, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Asians, and all of mankind who did not have a cent to their names; get it while the gettins good.

Every man, woman, and child for themselves…..only the strong survive, That hat be mine bitch, a mumble overheard, Get your fuckin hands back motherfucker, stare-downs, fingers formed in gang signs of old, you’d think it was a stock trader’s floor.

All was gone within minutes, nothing was shared nor spared; the black market was now open.

Shittttt….I can sell these rubbers for a buck each, Marcus said as he stuffed twenty or so in his overcoat pockets, Hoes be buyin up left and right, the wiry black man gave another glance and swiped a few more….

This be free enterprise, he said with a shift of his gate, Free for me to make a profit that is, he sped-up his pace….

I love this mother fuckin country…God bless America,
Why not Marcus……God bless America forever and ever Amen.

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Three urban wanderers crossed my path at Gramercy Park; a young bull pushing a keg…..a Millennial texting, talking, multitasking her way to a spiritual awakening……a lady of a bygone era pulling a Radio Flyer filled with favorites.

So sorry, she pivoted, almost on point…I do apologize….

What….what are you talking about?

I almost ran you over, she took two steps and placed a pale lined hand on my chest, please forgive me….

You’re fine mame….you’re more than fine…..placed my hand in hers above a belly shaking from the chill…

Wait, a pointer went up to the sky, just you wait, stood still….Look what I got…

From the bottom of the red wagon, a small orange lopsided ball emerged..it was tossed in the air with a chuckle….and applause as caught.

When I was a kid we always got tangerines in our stockings….how bout you?

Yes…yes mame I did….

They call them Clementines…..I say they’re Christmas Oranges….Open it….

Within two minutes the gift was ripped apart…..Here, take this….four slices were offered…both of us took our bites…we looked at each other….cabs drove by, dogs walked their humans, and rain began to fall….

Merry Christmas….she smiled…

Yes mame……Merry Christmas to you…..

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(Sunday lunch at St. Xavier)

Christ hung out with homeboys, whores, hustlers, and homeless; Render unto Caesar.

Shorty was holding court…..the line formed…..all listened..all watched.

Now…I’m telling you…we gonna be stuck with Hillary, an “oh shit,” was heard from those in line awaiting their Sunday blessing.

See….the Republicans got nobody….nobody, Shorty pulled his earplugs out, looked up and down the sidewalk, they got nobody.

What about Trump? asked a big man, a Sunday regular accustomed to Shorty’s sermons, he’s high in the polls…

Heads nodded, throats cleared, a fear of impending doom was cast down 15th Street.

That shit be cooked up, Shorty said with a grin and a twitch of his stache, motherfucker been in bed with Hillary the whole damn time, eyes got bigger, ears tuned in.

Trump don’t want that damn job….he just like being in the spotlight…and dat cracker Clinton know dat shit..

A tale was told, a plot unfolded of a well crafted plan by the 42nd president to assure his faire maiden’s desires…

You get Trump to swing this fucked up place so far right that Hillary would look middle of the road as can be…PT Barnum….There’s a sucker born every minute.

So you think this was all planned? the fat man puzzled….That’s right, Shorty floated a bandana as if magic were in the air….It’s showtime…

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On the sidewalk in front of St. Pat’s… a feast was placed.
A pizza covered by cardboard….eggplant sandwiches wrapped in brown paper doilies, salads in plastic bowls….an array of dressings; decisions…decisions…decisions…

Picasso’s blue lady looked down at the buffet….then looked at me….down at the treasure….back for my approval….
I nodded yes…..a smile…. a wink was returned…..

One hand held a large slice….while the eggplant was squeezed by the other; Dark Eyes alternated back and forth…a nibble of cheese….a hard bread ripped by a soft mouth. … ecstasy.

Beautiful…..just beautiful….eating….not caring….people walked past….some gawked….others too busy with texting and talking and googling and tweeting and and and….

We waved goodbye….she threw me a kiss….I blew one back.
God bless you Dark Eyes.

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