you’re lost…
gone far away in this american dream…
don’t think you’ll ever come back…
this idea you have of might makes right…
bein’ a company man…
Ayn Rand at her best…
think people make it on their own…
no outside help…no connections…
guess again…
you can work as hard as a mule in america…
die without a dime to your name…
an’ where’s the beauty in that…
we watch…wait for that opportunity…
that inside slice of pie…
for what…for what…
they don’t even give gold watches away anymore…
he’d wait all day an’ night for that phone to light-up…a call…messages…emails…somethin’…just didn’t wanna feel lonely…
looked at personal ads…hopin’ to find a match…anybody would do…the days of particulars was over…
carried that phone ’round always…in case she would call…just in case…he’d place it on the counter at the diner…bar at a tavern…his nightstand where he checked it periodically….
but it never rang…some messages from women in Russia would appear…miracle drugs to increase stamina and size…nothin’ from her…
he’d wait all day an’ night for that phone to light-up…
wrong number…
she wondered if he was comin’ back…left so many times…got tired of waitin’…
married some insurance salesman…met him online…lived in Saginaw…just to the north of her…
an’ that whole time she was bein’ courted…kept thinkin’ ’bout this drifter in her life…this vagabond who’d go from town to town like some hobo…was always excited to see him…
but then weeks passed…months…just assumed he was done with her…thought he was done with everything…used to tell her how tired he was of life…she knew it’d happen sooner or later…
she still thinks ’bout him…that hobo…that vagabond…
he’d go into these department stores…look around for hours…at lawn furniture…pictures of families in frames..black and whites…color photos too…
all over those Walmarts he walked…picking up baseballs…footballs…used to play catch in the front yard…
and he saw all these book-bags…backpacks…different kinds of luggage…thought of hittin’ the road again…goin’ someplace…startin’ over…always startin’ over…
then he’d see the gas grills…smokers…think maybe…just maybe…he could do it again…
maybe…
watched the East River…
waters flow and crash…
sat in solace…
alone with waves…
sounds behind me…
busses passing ‘cross town…
it is all noise…
washed away by songs of seagulls…
i long to let the waters take me…
far from junk…muck…mire…
gone till another life…
out to the ocean from where i came…
watched the East River…
waters flow and crash…
sat in solace…
alone with the waves…
and i do not want to grow old…
holding on to what…
tranquil moments…fleeting moments…
watching the East River…
on the stove a cast-iron skillet filled with bacon drippin’s sat cold and lonely…
nothin’ had been cooked for weeks…no pork chops…chicken…nothin’…just eatin’ dry cereal right outta the box…Cap’n Crunch…Boo Berry…somethin’ like that…think there was little marshmallows in it…
house was dark…some bugs crawlin’ up the walls…carpets never got vacuumed…just piss-spots from dogs he gave away….
an’ there he sat…covered in a blanket with a picture of Jesus on it holdin’ a lamb…talkin’ to himself…sayin’…,I’m tired of bein’ tired…,dozin’ in an’ out of dreams…short pictures with no sound goin’ through his head…memories of her…
gave-up when she died…who knows…grew crazier an’ crazier…always thought Mexicans were tryin’ to break into his house…talked ’bout buildin’ a wall ‘ round it…maybe a fortress…wanted protection from God knows what…
an’ he just sat there…covered by our savior…
covered by our savior…
the library was sanctuary…
in all the cities i wandered in…it was always there…
Chicago…St. Louis…Cinci…Montpelier…New Haven…New York….so many others…
going there when the sun was hot…winds cold…seeking salvation among peasants…homeboys…professionals…whores…holy-men…Hindus…and Kerouac’s haikus…
finding treasures on shelves to take me away from the current plight…vagabonds sleeping in corners…mixed in with Baldwin…Keats…Byron…and Ginsburg…20 minute power naps taken only to be told to wake-up by old men in sport coats…clearing the aisles…clearing the aisles…
and the computers taken-up by folks watching music videos…Facebookaholics…petty-porn and Craigslist…all avoiding the books…the written word is gone…
i read the Beats in these bibliotecas…seeking a cleansing for all that i had done…saved by sentences…saved by sentences…
my soul wept …cried for more time in this community only to be ushered out with loud speaker warnings…THE LIBRARY WILL BE CLOSED IN 30 MINUTES…..THE LIBRARY WILL BE CLOSED IN 30 MINUTES…THANK YOU…
saying adieu to Corso…Burroughs…Bukowski…
till tomorrow my friends…till tomorrow…
he’d stay -up all night…listenin’ to the radio…some jazz station outta’ Newark…talk radio from Jersey City…airwaves bouncin’ over rivers…voices soundin’-off from far away places ’bout the economy…politics…go down the dial again to hear Dexter Gordon play Our Love Is Here To Stay…that one made him cry…
when he was married he’d only listen to the radio in the car drivin’ ’round town…on his way to pick-up groceries…meet a friend at the local tap…maybe drivin’ ‘through Manhattan in search of something to calm his nerves that the doctors couldn’t prescribe…always lookin’ for somethin’…
it coulda’ been a drink…a woman…some dime bag…anything that would ease his mind…stop stirrin’ the soul…his wife didn’t understand…nor did his parents when he was younger and had wander lust…used to hitchhike all over america…just him and a transistor radio…you could say it was his salvation…
had these strange thoughts of endin’ his life for a long time…just stoppin’ everything in it’s tracks an’ goin’ to heaven…some kinda’ paradise…he dreamed of streets paved in gold…mansions on hills…reality always woke ’em up…
he’d stay-up all night listenin’ to that radio…goin’ up-n-down the dial like a madman at times ‘fore he settled into a conversation…or the Bill Evans Trio playin’ Gloria’s Step…
he just stayed-up all night…
all night…
and with dirty-grey strands of hair tossed like spaghetti…chest scars exposed…lines drawn on a weathered face…he slept…
just slept with an old Mexican blanket covering frail legs…swollen ankles….bare feet…un-trimmed toe nails…no sounds…could’ve taken ’em for dead…he slept…
a V-neck tee-shirt unwashed…worn for days and days and days…smells of fried bologna…stains of mustard…grease spots…comfortable in his sty…he slept…
never moved a muscle in that LazyBoy…well broken-in…stretched-out…just closed eyes…dreaming of being on submarines and old oil rigs in his youth…he slept…
he slept…in peace…he slept…
goodnight pop…
inner-peace…
here’s to inner-peace…
cheers…hip-hip-hooray…
i hear you…
you are death to writing…
wrong for love…
fires need to burn…
words not wasted…
and i thought i wanted you…
needed you…
led down grassy paths…
warmth on cold days…
lovely thoughts…
non-jealousies…
no rage…
nor suffering…
better off at Bellevue…
under-medicated…
a bit of seething…
emotions stirred…
god may want us to have peace…
people can long for thoughts of heaven…
want…want…want…
but as for me…
i’ll opt out…
dmseay 