dmseay

would sit in a room listenin’ ta’ BGO outta’ Jersey….

Bukowski by my side…poems…On Cats….

Catholic church ‘cross the alley…Mexican girls in short skirts an’ shawls…

staircase…leading where….where…some hole reeking of shit left behind…. this poor bastard… dumb prick….nothing elegant…waitin’ for ah’ clean-up crew ta’ come…waitin’….waitin’….waitin’….

little Petey sneakin’ back ah’ dumpster to take a piss… black chicks with big round asses strut-by…. caught his act before…lookin’ both ways…aren’t we all….

leaves in gold…orange…yellow…red…on the ground downtown ’till spring comes again…put the rakes away…Mother Nature’ll take care ah’ this…

soon snow’ll takeover frozen brown …homeboys’ll stay ‘side…longing for heat…back ta’ business….till’ then…boys…you’re on your own…,I aint goin’ out in dat cold an’ shit ta’ get my ass capped, why should’ya….

Dexter Gordon blows….i’m hooked….sittin’ in a room listenin’ ta’ BGO outta’ Jersey…

Bukowski by my side…poems…On Cats….

a dusty table-saw sat in the garage…router…drill-press…red dented Craftsman on casters…he’d had ’em for years…

money’s low pop…gettin’ low…

what’dya mean low…

rent’s due…time…

huh…

what’dya think…

don’t know…

after all the bills get paid…what’dya got…

don’t know…

not much…

not much…

nope…not much…

so…

choices pop… choices…

huh…

look…gotta stop…this…

what…

this…time’s up pop…we’re all on the clock dad…’bout ta’ ring…

never set it…

right…need ta’ sell the shop…

sell the shop…

yes…money’s not there…then ya’ gotta move…somethin’ cheaper…take care ah’ ya’….

huh…care of me…

yes…

see…

do ya’…

knew it was comin’….

what’s that…this…

yea…day my own family’d desert me…saw’t comin’ ‘long time ‘go…your mother warned me ’bout this…

did she now…

yep…

way you see it…

look…that shop stays…got it…saavy…

your choice…

when nothin’ means nothin’ you got nothin’…

haven’t built anything in years…

when nothin’ means nothin’ you got nothin’…

Pepsi…where ya’ goin’…

garage…

uhuh…

wanna’ be out there awhile…’lone…

see…

when nothin’ means nothin’ ya’ got nothin’…

alright…dad…

when nothin’ means…

so… bars ’round Wrigley…

yea…

chargin’for the game…

oh yea…

‘magine that…

mother-fuckers…

right…

listen…Jacobowskis….Yablomowitz…Ski’s an’ Itz’s…that shit wouldn’t fly…

uhuh’….give a Smith or a Brown the chance ta’ fuck a guy…what’d they do…

right…

fuckin’ Cubs fans…

knew ’em when he sold used-cars to old ladies on Sullivan Street…pensions parted with…dead men rolling in graves….

said ta’ left town…figured only so many lives… bank job…get-in…get the money…get-out…real cool like…

he was at a truck-stop a few counties over in this past midnight haze…eatin’ chilli…yackin’ it up with smoky brunette waitresses…pin-up girl wannabe’s…

Gotta deal for ya hon’…., heard Slick say, No money upfront…notta dime down…take one…’bout two…, shuck-n-jive had the broads jumpin’ while red-eyed truckers drank coffee…waitin’ on numbers to be called, Shower 125…Shower 125…you’re up sweety…, soundin’ like Jane Russell…maybe…early morn plays tricks…

an’ i watched…tempting tongue…listened ’till sun come-up…what talk…real skill…

where’d i go wrong…

tis morn…always morn…

3 o’clock… lonely time…

purple hours…

awaiting what…

cup of joe… peek of sun…touch of your hand…

darkness…offers no comfort…never did…yet…i lay in it’s mystery…every night…every night…

where were you my love… his name…cool car…did he buy dinner…

nice work if you can get it…

perhaps i should’ve tried harder…it was all so easy…pain always is…no rest…overtime guarenteed…

tis ’round in bars…bedrooms…backseats…back-alleys…brothels with timecards always punched…no need to look…the slap is coming…

tick tock…tick tock…tick tock…

and in this morn i wait for what…what…a girl… fix… temporary savings…

honey…I’m home…

don’t force…

but…

just…

o.k. …..

its knowing when to walk away…

away….

yes…leave it alone…let it be…

you’ve learned this…

yea…too many times… over and over and over….

keep making this mistake….

that’s the mark of insanity…

yes…same result…same crazy results over and over and over….

so…I learned to walk away…sometimes…sometimes….

and then it comes to you…

sure…or…something completely different…you never planned…

that’s when its best…

yes…no maps…diagrams…don’t design it ….she’ll come to you….

or not…

or not….

and then…

next story…next poem… lyric…but you have to walk away…

gotcha…

has to breath…this same mistake…choking her to death…what’d is getcha….

what ’bout discipline…writing when there’s nothing there…

how do you do that…really…how…

that’s part of the craft…

no…that’s an assembly line…k….that’s soulless…..

think…

when you make love…do you storyboard every move ahead of time…perhaps a plotted orgasm…tickling tits at the exact time…

well…

poor girl….poor fucking girl….shame on you…and what comes from that…

writing and fucking are two different things…..

really….you think…

has ta’…..

right…and this is the problem….no writing…romance…spontaneous fucking…

I…

it is gone…left along time ago…walked out the door in backpacks carried by Ginsberg…Kerouac….Bukowski…and that old man at the bar who no-one’s seen for years…you want a planned out piece of writing….type-up insurance forms….cashback guarantees….recording contracts….right…

‘spose…

mmm….’spose…gotta go….

lift…

walk…gonna walk…

weird this time ah night….

yes…yes….I like weird….

 

this need of doing something…

flighty fidgeting fucking…enough…

television…telephone…texting…talking to strangers in Bangladesh…anything but poetry…

meditation is needed…locked away in solace…kept apart…from them and this and these and they.. and…and…now i lay thee down to…

noise…it never goes away…i sleep to the serenade of gunshots…old Leonard Cohen songs…boys-n- girls up and down the block play midnight games of tag…you’re it….Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Hallelujah…

let’s rest our bones…put our souls in slumber…while America’s insomnia continues into  morn…

shhhh…stop twitching…shaking…talking…too much…too…too…much…

here’s a buck… now…go away…

she laughed…

at you…

no…

sure…

yes…

then what…

just laughed…

doesn’t happen…

a laugh…

not for the sake of laughing…

mmm….

gotta be a source…

you’re saying…

you my friend…are the fountain…

fountain…

she comes to you when…

when…

yes…when…when she needs to laugh…

at me…

this is your purpose…

that’s what i am…

look…I’m saying…

got it…not a fountain…a clown…

O.K. ….a clown…yes…a clown…

so…

what’dya want…

need a drink…

yes…don’t we all…

somethin’ out there…’side…

what’dya think…

don’t know…

dog…coyote….

naw…not sure…movin’ ’round…just two colored glows…guess eyes…who knows…

coffee…

too late…

back ta’ sleep…

nope…can’t…

thinkin’ ’bout…

yea…that too…what is that…

gotta’ stop…it’ll kill ya’…

‘spose…she liked autumn…

yea…she did…

used to go on these drives…everyday…get in the car an’ go….

where to…

all over…didn’t matter…Ohio…Michigan…sometimes Kentucky…

long rides…

nothin’ but time…keeps movin’…pacin’…look at it…like he owns the place…

no coffee…

naw…goin’ out to the garage for awhile…

O.K. ….

you seen that gun I had…

shotgun…

yea… shotgun…

it’s 3 in the mornin’….

yea…

you miss her…huh…

….you seen that gun…

yesterday i posted my 500th piece on this poetry/prose/essay/hybrid experimental journal…an exercise that wakes me…what word sounds better…cut…cut…cut…always cutting…sanding…a task which never ends…never…

it is discipline…craft…love…need…cathartic…confession…and soul…not a thing…nor a word do i regret placing on the page at 3 in the morning…again…Mailer was right…it is the spooky art …

i am consumed by writing…listening and watching America in homeless shelters…beggars on street corners…whores in late night bars… diners with redhead waitresses…psych-wards…pills popped and shots taken by crazies…junkies…detoxed drunks…children left behind…a home where death awaits while memories slip past hour by hour by hour…abandoned malls…burnt-out cars… a love affair with a beautiful blonde…who will forever mystify me…

of these i write…

late nights at The Pepper Pod…Port Authority…Irish dives…busses taken up and down and all around…stops in Cinci…Pittsburgh…New York…that terrible terminal in Toledo…listening to jazz in parks as the good citizenry of a country gone crazy walk by…pushing strollers…pushing tea…pushing…pushing…to get-by…aren’t we all…

i am a writer…not an author…a writer…this is craft…discipline…not fashion…

shame-on those that pose…

it is 4 in the morning…

goodnight…