dmseay

this old brown leather chair has cracks in it…small pieces fall-off each time it is sat-in…a constant sweep…a constant sweep…cushion turned upside-down…hiding it’s tears…hiding it’s years like a socialite…forever young…forever young…

and i was a gypsy…a strolling vagabond… no home…possessions…there were none…all was disposable…carted to a dumpster in a moment’s notice…discarded clothes…discarded books…discarded life…everything is temporary…

it was New York streets…sleeping in corners of the Midtown library…under trees in Central Park…keeping track of bathroom codes at Starbucks…coffee and buttered rolls at Apostle’s Church…week-long vacations at Bellevue…who says bein’ crazy is crazy…

longing for you old brown chair…wanting to be comforted…by something strong…heavy…stable…you have not let me down…you have not let me down…

i sit this morn in a lap of love…do not throw this away…do not…for it is mine to keep…hold- on…hold on…

you are home…

and my thoughts race in this early morn…backwards they go…to Montreal…Montpelier…Philly…New Haven…New York…always the next town…always the next ….leaving in the black of night…north and south on 95…north and south…winding my way from Maine to Virginia…jazz on midnight radio…driving and driving and driving…borrowing money from ex-wives…ex-friends…ex-lovers…and enemies…whatever it took to keep the gas tank off E…food in my belly…booze on my lips…this i did in rememberance of thee…

leaving mortgages behind…Saturday morning mowing sessions with a lawn that never gave-up a fight…trash detail on Sunday evenings…mid-week moanings of humpday blues with boredom between me and you…boredom between me and you…and i wanted this and you wanted that…never did we meet…never…just a cold war in an old house with tomatoes on the vine and daffodils and lilacs…and lillies…and Japanese maples showing growth each year…each year…

but not us…our love broke-down with each season…nothing new…same old same old…till the wanting stopped…the wanting stopped…

and i hit the road…leaving a mess behind…unpaid bills…traffic tickets…dirty dishes…a dog named Floyd…said i was goin’ out for a six pack and never came back…a note left on a pillow…

and my thoughts race in this early morn…backwards they go…to Montreal…Montpelier…Philly… New Haven…New York…

and you…yes you…
my thoughts go back to you…

step away…
there is nothing to write…
nothing that comes to mind…
a blank stare at the keyboard…
empty…

transfixed on something that simply is not there…no thoughts…no words…just an empty sheet of paper before me…nothing…

and i want to fill that paper as i do each morn…with sentences…dashes and dots…dashes and dots…dialogue…monologue…a poem perhaps…yet there is nothing…

hear the early morn bird in the darkness calling-out for the sun…see streetlamps flicker…porchlights shimmer…the stop sign across the street from St. Pat’s where a boy bleed from a gunshot wound on a Sunday eve…but…nothing comes to mind…

i am empty…the pen is dry today…

empty…

an old combination to a New York City locker was found in my bookbag…30 to the right…34 turn left…then swing back to the right to hit 11…protected all my possessions…

toothbrush…check…
toothpaste…check…
Speedstick…check…
Moby Dick…check…
couple of wash cloths…check…
some tee-shirts…check…
notebook and pens…check…
On The Road by Kerouac…check…
phone charger…check…
Tropic Of Cancer…always carry Miller…check…
pictures of you…check…

days spent wandering ’round the city…walking 10 miles a day…riding the subway and studying the guy next to you…the business woman in glasses…homeless people begging…kids selling candy…card tricks…a black man rappin’ ’bout this town gettin’ him down…and Midwestern tourists looking-on with fear and wonderment…

it was nights spent in metal chairs…boys hustlin’ in hotel rooms by Times Square…needles strewn along sidewalks in Union…$7 for a pint of beer…smokes goin’ for $12 a pack…and the sweet smell of pot on corners throughout Washington Heights…

was $ slices…cherry pie at a diner with a cup of joe…selling food stamps for 40%. to an Arab in the Bronx…making ends meet…

and lines…lines…lines…endless lines all the time…lines for social security…lines for tb tests…lines for lunch at the drop-in centers and churches…lines for tour buses…lines for the latest Jordan’s…lines leading back to you in a dreary small town…a dreary small town…

an old combination to a New york City locker was found in my book bag…30 to the right…34 turn left…then swing back to the right to hit 11…protected all my possessions…

all my possessions…

is mom in the backroom….

no pop…

funny…I could’ve swore I heard her back there…messin’ ’round like she always does…foldin’ clothes…listenin’ to Neil Diamond or somethin’ or other…

no dad…she’s not back there…

huh…smelled her too…that lotion she wears…Jergens…

yea…

always putin’ on lotion…never gets enough of that stuff…puts it on her arms and legs and face too…I’ve grown used to it…

well…yea…could see that…

thought I saw her this morning in the kitchen frying eggs and bacon…toad-n-the-holes…

toad-n-the-holes…i ‘member those from bein’ a kid…gotta’ use white bread for ’em…

yea…well she made ’em this mornin for me…the yolk was hard and the little circle she cut-out was soft…just the way I like it…

dad…she…

you sure she’s not back there in the bedroom…I heard her singin’ along to Dionne Warwick…singin’ Do You Know The Way To San Jose…real pretty-like…

you heard her huh…

didn’t you…

no pop…

maybe ‘fore you got here…she was singin’ up a storm…”I’m goin’ back to find… some peace of mind in San Jose…”

so she was singin’ huh…

oh yea…always singin’…go back there an’ knock on the door an’ tell her I’m ready to go…

can’t do that dad…

why…

’cause…

awe hell I’ll do it myself….

dad…

just knock on the door an’ tell her it’s time to go….

pop…

Kay…Kay….

dad…she’s not…

Kay…Kay…why won’t she answer me…

she’s gone dad…she’s gone…

oh yeah…

yeah…

where’d she go…

don’t know pop…don’t know…

you don’t know…

no…don’t know…

“do you know the way to San Jose….I’m goin’ back to find…”

Do You KnowThe Way To San Jose, written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David

belly droops…teats sag…gray mixes-in with what was once jet-black…and the stares from the broads become less and less and less…

sitting naked at this typewriter…an inventory of honesty…naked at midnight hour…a new skin-tag appeared yesterday…and a mole the day before…

hazy-brown eyes behind bi-focals…circles of purple and black…purple and black…getting uglier and liking it…

hair on the back…the ass becomes concave…ankles pop when walking in the rain on November days…truth becomes easier…easier…

and the houses and the vacations and the wives and the cars and the careers and the moving from town to town to town and the Greyhound bus ticket from a one way excursion of youth and the whores and the drinks and the midnight joints and the old time haunts and Manhattan…and Manhattan….gone now…gone…

autumnal walks at noon…colors of leaves painted trees…morning coffee alone…alone…why is this poem so-hard to write…

belly droops…teats sag…gray mixes-in with what was once jet black…and the stares from the broads become less and less and less…

didn’t hear you come-in…
waited…and waited…
to wish you good morn…
hold you in this coolness…
there were other plans…

dreamt in my slumber…
of a kiss…
that was all…
just a kiss….
nothing else required…

held my neck…
grabbed me…
body and soul…
lips full…
heart trembled…

walked-away…
not looking-back…
leaving you behind…
too long…too long…
our’s was the kiss of a million years…

didn’t hear you come-in…
waited…and waited…
to wish you good morn…
hold you in this coolness…
there were other plans…

loneliness at 1:30…
a jar of Cafe Bustelo instant coffee…
heat comes through the windows…
bare walls…
voices inside a head…

small lamps giving-off light…
a Ted Hughes book of poetry…
the story of Tom Joad…
squared wooden nightstand…
blankets wadded-up in a ball…

sweat stains on a $50 pilllow…
the girl that got away…
tea cups with pictures of hamlets…
a brown ottoman…
this keyboard pounded-on…

white blinds opened to a black night…
porch lights on…
church on the corner…
wooden fire-escapes…
gunshots going-off…

dirty clothes in a bin…
cigarette smoke through the vents…
this desk i write-on…
keys to a car that will soon be gone…
silver for bus fare…pennies for…pennies for…

a book-bag carrying Moby Dick…
clothes folded somewhat…
copper mugs…
a pen from a gym i don’t go-to…
limp phone chargers…

corkscrew…bottle-opener…
a suicide prevention magnet…
an empty fridge…
street lights flicker
a Padre Pio medallion…

loneliness at 1:30…
a jar of Cafe Bustelo instant coffee…
heat comes through the windows…
bare walls…
voices inside a head…

a clock that doesn’t tick…

we got a doctor’s appointment today…

no pop…

so we don’t have a doctor’s appointment…

no…

I’m sure thinkin’ back to when I was a kid …back when I lived in Paris…

back to Texas…

yep…back to Texas…back when I was 4 years old…back when the war was goin’-on…

‘member back that far…

there was these 3 German soldiers who wound-up in our living room one mornin’…couldn’t speak a lick of English…they was all scared…just kept babblin’ ’bout given-up…they was given-up the war right there in our living room…

really…

yep…they escaped or somethin’…got lost…guess they didn’t know where it was they was goin’ in this land of ours…so they knocked on our door and grandma let ’em in…gave ’em a cup of coffee…maybe some kind of roll…an’ they was talkin’ in German real fast…they was mixin’ in the words…,We give-up…we give-up…, they just kept talkin…wantin’ us to turn ’em in…no-wonder they lost the war…

they were probably scared dad…

probably…real young-un’s…had on gray uniforms…work clothes I guess…real nice fellas…just couldn’t understand ’em…

whatd’ya…do…

well it was just me and mom…grandpa was out of town doin’ somethin’ or other…just one of those times he was gone…

he was gone a lot pop…

yea dad was gone a lot…drove a bus…he had himself a piece of somethin’ in every town ‘cross the Southwest…God knows what he brought home to grandma…but it made her crazy…it made her crazy….

so these Germans…

what Germans…

the one’s in your living room…the prisoners…

yea well…mom called the Sheriff up an’ he said you got what…she told ’em again and again and again…couldn’t believe her…

huh…

yea well eventually the law showed-up at the door and took ’em away…speakin’ German the whole time…but they did say thank you…real polite…real polite like…

i’ll be…

we gotta doctor’s appointment today…

no pop…no we don’t….

huh…my mind is thinkin’ back to when I was a kid in Paris…

yea…

an these Germans showed-up at our door wantin’ to turn themselves in…

yea…

didn’t speak a lick of English….don’t know how we was ‘spose to understand ’em…

Padre Pio fell yesterday…the monk took a tumble from ’round my neck…to the floor where he was swept away with Coke cans…Fritos wrappers…headlines of the day before…

Padre Pio fell yesterday…released into the world…no-longer responsible for my protection…placed in a trash-can and floated down river to a town near Babylon where sinners sin and children cry out in darkness of night…

Padre Pio fell yesterday…left nothing but a trace…a rememberance of how he got there…from travels up and down the East coast…shelters and drop-in centers in the Bronx…brothers serving the afflicted…the poor…pray for us…pray for us…

Padre Pio fell yesterday…only a silver chain remains…and i counted on him to get me through tough times…when the soul and body both hungered…stomach growling…heart hurting…mind weak…

Padre Pio fell yesterday…no-longer will i be able to hold-on to his edged-out face…tarnished beard…rub his robe’s collar…he is gone…he is gone…

Padre Pio fell yesterday …memories remain…mom gave him to me after hearing my stories from the road and how i was taken in at his church where i was fed and clothed…and cared-for…cared-for…

Padre Pio fell yesterday…Padre Pio fell…