dmseay

an’ there was all these people gathered ’round on a Sunday mornin’…waitin’ to see somebody take to the call…wantin’ to see the miracle of salvation in front of their own eyes..the submersion of sin…

the preacher’s words were simple…, for God gave his only son so that we may not perish…but have ever lasting life…

i wanted that ever lasting life…salvation…longed to walk the streets of gold…did not want to burn in Hell with those sinners who chose not to accept the Lord Jesus Christ into their lives…

did not want to be in the lake of fire…hear the gnashing of teeth…surrounded by burnin’ flesh for all of eternity…no sir… i did not…

so…i answered the call…the call to ever lastin’ peace at the age of 9….goodbye to all the evils commited…death to sin…and alive to Christ….

an’ i was ready to go an’ witness to others of my salvation…Christ’s sacrifice…there was no strangers that i knew…all were asked…, have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ into your life…he’s waitin’ on you to answer his call…

many scoffed at me…some said they had already made that commitment in their lives…others turned a blind eye to the kid in the park…shopping malls…fronts of grocery stores…school…they laughed at the boy who gave warning to pay heed to the word of God…all too many times…

this took it’s toll on my faith…began to question…anger stirred in the soul…ridicule…there was no semblance of God here on earth…this is a world of sin…where greed is good…lust powerful…drink strong…

so… i left it all behind on a sunday morning when i did not answer that call…when i did not seek-out salvation…i too began to laugh at the believer… returned to sin…

an’ i do not know…do not understand why this world chooses to crush the faith of a child…

but it does…it does…

Coltrane…Monk…Miles…Mingus…meditations…McCann…Evans…Chet Baker…Blakey…prayers….P. C. …Dizzy…Getz…Charlie Parker…soul- searching…

looking…listening…lying here with thoughts floating above my head as sweetness plays on the radio…it’s 2 in the morning…and i’m wanting to leave the body for a while…fly across town and look down on all you create with your sounds…with your sounds…

…Love Supreme…the Trane takes me on a trip as i see Birdland…Blue Note…Le Journal…music rising to my ears and there is peace…there is peace…

hovering over this world…jazz in dear old Stockholm…Paris…New York…flying…flying by way of sound…listening to bop as it blows and tweets and punches…and pulls me out of the funk…the muck and the mire of this life…this life…

a love affair with jazz…a love affair with jazz…

jazz…you are my perfect love…never have you let me down…true…always true…there is honesty in your kiss…soul in your lips…a tragedy…triumph…a kick in the pants when needed…a touch to the body when wanted…

i pledge my love to you jazz…never wanting…making me whole…playing albums and remembering the first time…the first time…

Kind of Blue…On Green Dolphin Street…Lush Life…the smokiness of My Funny Valentine…Kathleen’s Theme…i wish for nothing more…nothing more…

a love affair with jazz…a love affair with jazz…

and i wondered if it was a dream…hitchin’ from Joplin on old 66 into Oklahoma…out there walkin’ on the side of the road with nothin’ to my name…no clothes…toothpaste…books…deodorant…nothin’…just an american wanderin’ ‘cross ‘merica…wanderin’ down a black top road…thumb out…feet sore…just walkin’…

these cars an’ trucks would pass me by…Fords…old Chevy’s…a Mustang…Maverick…automobiles filled with families headin’ west…followin’ the sun in the evenin’s sky…that’s what i was doin’…followin’ the sun…

days of sleepin’ under bridges…torn-up buildings…followed the midnight star from Chicago…doin’ odd jobs…sellin’ carpet cleaner from door to door…workin’ on ranches…a clown…

walkin’ mostly with nothin’ in my pockets…just my left hand as i paced backwards in August heat…never knowin’ where i was gonna’ land…never…searchin’ for true romance…the american way…

or was it…this wanderin’ throughout my life…hitting the road at a moment’s notice…goin’ insearch of gold like some 49er…somethin’…

like Whitman…Kerouac…not as clever as Dean Moriarty…but as foolish…as foolish…

just kept wanderin’…just kept wanderin’…askin’ myself…,boy…what are you lookin’ for in this world…what is it you want…
to dream…just to dream…
reality’s too hard…

3 in the morn and we drove through town…
one of your imaginary heart attacks…
kept poppin’ nitros…
no radio…no noise…just silence…

kept holdin’ on to your chest…
arms folded round…
ran red lights…
passed McDonald’s…old YMCA…coney stand…

and it was pitch black…
guided by headlights…
old voices haunting…
from childhood…from childhood…

chores on Saturdays…
playin’ basketball on a dirt court…
you took granny-shots…
cursed when ya’ missed…

but childhood ends…
maybe parenting stops too…
we drove in silence…
just silence…

two of us…
father…son…
one taking care of the other…
funny…never saw it comin’…

asked me what day it was…
Sunday…,i said…
oh…
yep…

we drove in silence…
just silence…

should’ve talked more…

bare walls…scared to put -up pictures…of you…
blank-slates…wanting to be filled…with memories…

the schizophrenic hooker in Montreal who talked to herself and offered any sexual task for a can of beer…among trees we talked for an hour…imaginary friends…imaginary friends…bought beers for them too…

a black mom with 3 screamin’ kids at her feet on the bus in New Haven…wearing a tee-shirt stating…,STOP THE MESSIN’ GOD IS BLESSIN…,yelling into a phone to a man who owed her past moneys…

defendnig myself in the streets of St. Louis with a bag full of books…in case of attack swing with Whitman…Joyce… Melville… they seemed to pack a punch…

bare walls…scared to put up pictures…of you…
blank slates…wanting to be filled with memories…

ex-wives…ex-lovers…excomunicated…what were my crimes…what were my crimes…

drop-in centers and shelters…drop-in centers and shelters…always ’round the corners…in New York…Fort Wayne…Jopllin, MO…count your blessings baby…count your blessings…

midnight searches for bathrooms in Vermont…Maine’s September chill…Providence…dry drunks screaming-out for a drink…piss test tomorrow boys…New Hampshire’s philosophy of …,GIVE ME FREEDOM OR GIVE ME DEATH…., too many times i chose death…too many times…

bare walls…scared to put up pictures…of you…blank slates…wanting to be filled with memories….

come spring I’m gonna build somethin’…,the old man said…,out in the garage…all that wood I got…maybe some bookshelves…or a table…,he slurrped his Pepsi…,
your brother and Jenny want me to sell my tools…don’t they…you can’t get nothin’ for used tools…people don’t ‘preciate it…they want it for free…

Johnny said he could get you a pretty fair price for that Shopsmith and that table-saw…

Johnny and’ Jenny don’t know a damn thing ’bout woodworking…tools…they want me to get rid of my babies…

yea…you need the money pop…

can’t just get rid of my children like that…routers…jigsaws…drill-bits…

you can’t take it with ya’ dad…

where am I goin’…

we talked ’bout this…

oh yea…you and them want me in some kinda’ nursing home…where they feed me and wipe my ass…real dignified like….

you don’t think it’s time…

all I want is to work with my hands again…be a man…turn the radio on out in the garage an’ get those blades to cuttin’…

too dangerous pop…your timing’s off these days…same reason you can’t drive…

slow reaction huh…

slow reaction…

when they plan on puttin’ me away…

just waitin for the waiver pop…Medicaid…

oh…I see…couple of months…could be December…

this is April pop…more like May…

what…no Thanksgiving this year…

you can visit on Thanksgiving…

next week right…

it’s April dad…it’s April…

you’re shittin’ me…

no pop…it’s April…

pretty soon I can get out in the shop…build some bookcases for ya’…I’d like to do that…

we’ll see pop…we’ll see…

Johnny an’ Jenny outta’ town…

no…they’re here…he’s stopin’ by to let a guy look at your tools…

long as he’s just lookin’….long as he’s just lookin’…

in constant thought…
being done…
finished with this…
onto something new…

retracing old steps…
what went wrong…
all the way back to 5 …
didn’t want to be alive…

always thinking about…a final jump…bottles of pills…run-over by a bus…shot to the head…knife to the vein…just drink…and drink…and drink…a slow suicide…

bipolar1…
chemical imbalance…
manic-depression…
crazy…just plain crazy…

retracing old steps…
what went wrong…
all the way back to 5…
didn’t want to be alive…

everyday…wanting to end life…a crying episode…bottled screams….Wilco songs that break you down…,I am trying to break your heart…I am trying to break your heart…

2 attempts…
31 hospitalizations….
18 w2 forms…in a year…
living on $735 a month…

why…
fear of living…
frightened by past…
haunted by present…

retracing old steps…
what went wrong…
all the way back to 5…
didn’t want to be alive…

and is this masturbation…
self-pity…
these feelings of sorrow…
keep it to yourself…keep it to yourself…

tis more than just a bad day…
bluer than the blues…
a wanting…craving…
perhaps you feel this too…

what is happiness…
knowing salvation…
to be loved…
new sweater…

tis nothing…
nothing…
nothing…
tis nothing…

retracing old steps…
what went wrong…
all the way back to 5…
didn’t want to be alive…

I am trying to break your heart…written by Jeff Tweedy of Wilco….1st song on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot…

Teacher…that’s what they called me…these guys in shelters where i dwelled for years…a traveling gypsy…a wandering soul…they called me Teacher…

men outta’ Rikers…outta’ state prisons…time served for murder…rape…horrible…said they did what they had to do…said they were compelled…to steal…assault…kill…
violent…living by codes…pecking orders…time spent in the joint…time served on the streets…points for each crime committed…a constant fight to be number one among the tribe…of killers…crazies…junkies…hustlers…whores…predators…meth-heads…casualties of the streets…casualties…

Joyce…Melville…Kerouac…carried on me at all times…Whitman in times of need…, what you always readin’ for…,guys would ask me….,good for the soul…,i’d tell ’em…,good for the soul…

it was good for my soul…kept me grounded…all that time without had more than i needed…a cot…shower…books…constant prayer…constant prayer…

and i’d tell ’em ’bout Ahab…Ishmael…Bloom…Dean Moriarty…bout facing the belly of the beast…the road…these killers and cutthroats…would listen…listen to lessons day in and day out…,Teacher…how’d you get so smart…, they’d ask…,why’d you wind-up in this place…homeless…shelters and the streets…shelters and the streets…

i just shook my head…told ’em…,Everybody has a price to pay…everybody…whether you’re a killer or a crazy…we all have a price to pay…

an’ there was all these men sittin’ ’round eatin’ rolls…stickybuns…leftovers from the near-by doughnut shop…came in big plastic bags…green garbage bags really…just threw ’em down in the center of the gatherin’ place on big long wooden card tables…the kind people sit behind when their conducting a meeting…or wantcha’ to get in line for a ticket to a Friday night football game or something…

just tables with garbage bags in the middle of the room with men pickin’ through ’em…some complained ’bout the pecan rolls bein’ hard…stale…others ate ’em just fine…like they hadn’t had nothin’ for days…

an’ there was hot coffee served in these big silver pots at the end of the tables…milk and some half-n-half in cartons with Elsie the cow on the boxes…that big goofy smile on her face…always happy to give milk…nicest cow i ever knew…

pretty soon the boys come through the place with the big push-brooms…sweepin’-up discarded wax papers that wrapped ’round the doughnuts an’ buns…swept-up napkins and styrofoam cups…couple of loose teeth that lay on the floor…they was fallin’ outta’ crazy John’s head left an’ right….he was bleedin’ like a stuck pig…in his hands was this sticky bun covered in nuts an’ blood…nuts an’ blood…the roll just took it all in like a giant sponge…he just sat there with that goofy smile on his face eatin’ away….just eatin’ away…

they started taken the garbage bags ‘way an’ all the men went to pushin’ an’ shovin’ for more…Old Joe told ’em to get back or there wouldn’t be any kinda’ breakfast tomorrow…they was just words…just words….

i sat an’ watched with my cup of coffee…didn’t want any rolls…just coffee…chapel was startin’ soon…we’d all bow our heads an give thanks for the bags of sweets…

we all gave thanks… we all gave thanks…

waited for autumn…
never came…
wanting a colorful death…
something to write home about…
from Montreal…
where a foriegn tongue was spoken…
trendy coffee shops…
old burlesque shows…
tourists talking…
and i kept quiet…kept quiet…

waited for autumn…
never came…
wanting a colorful death…
something to write home about…
from Vermont…
sleeping in a Dodge…
eating French fries in vacant lots…
poets discuss and discuss and discuss…too much discussion
not enough writing…not nearly enough…

waited for autumn…
never came…
wanting a colorful death…
something to write home about…
from Gotham…
eating in soup kitchens…
praying in churches…
watching youth at play in Washington Square…
junkies trying to score…
mixing with Mexican migrant workers…on the road to somewhere…somewhere…

waited for autumn…
never came…
wanting a colorful death…
something to write home about…
from the Pittsburgh bus depot…
where loudspeakers tell of boarding calls…
vagabonds roll cigarettes…
college girls apply make-up…
sending out selfies…
for all the world to see…

waited for autumn..
never came…
wanting a colorful death…
something to write home about…
from my heart…
broken…
soul searching from city to city to city…
looking for reds and golds…reds and golds…
turning to brown..
waited…waited…

for you…
waited for you…