dmseay

it is back to the road in search of Whitman…Kerouac…and… Dean Moriarty…

in and out of fact…around the corner from fiction…what is real…that which is imagined…drunken fits and bongo hits along a trail hiked only by poets…

madmen and prophets…sifting through tealeaves to tally-up a future’s promise…don’t count on it…

looking and listening to America…staring her right in the face and calling Liberty’s bluff…the odds are never good…

sleeping in rooms rented out by the week…no need for lawn-care…hedges never trimmed…a place to rest bones and boasts…words placed on pages at two in the morning with noises of children at play…walking home from bars and diners where 6 egg omlettes were eaten and coffee was slurped…

letters sent to old girlfriends…old allies…old old old…all that was done away with yet still haunts when lonesome…and…it is always lonesome…

it is back to the road in search of Whitman…Kerouac…and Dean Moriarty…

my life has begun…

it is extreme mania…euphoric beyond measure…spending sprees and maxed out credit cards…bank accounts overdrawn…endless drives going into the next day and the next day…up and down the coast …across America…happily going into the abyss…novels written in three week stances…disregarding sleep…no dreams…a force to be reckoned with…and a sex drive unequal to any man…woman…beast…or college freshman…

the appetite is beyond huge…more is better…the most is preferred…popping Wellbutrin…Trazadone only mocks…and daily doses of Depakote swallowed in hopes of three hours of sleep…good luck…

writing in restaurants…walking city blocks into early morn…rapid thoughts…blaming yourself for failed relations…always showing your hand too soon…the want of love…affection in large quantities from whoever whatever where ever it can be found…in bars…in strip clubs…online…ex-girlfriends… constant hunger…famished…never satisfied…if only to be held…if only to be held…

all this leads to one gigantic crash…suicidal thoughts increase ten-fold with clouds of sadness overhead for days and days and days…curled-up in fetal positions…shivering under blankets…the feel of the physical sickness…a body…a mind…a soul out of commission…nowhere to land…all have been alienated by past yelling…constant calling…apologies for being ill…just take the fall…a ten count is required…

you want to quit…stop life…halt this monster in it’s tracks…but…you can’t…

no jobs…a friend or two…trust in no-one… then everyone…again no-one…please give me solace…

breath…breath…breath…take-in…push-out…in case of emergency call 911…

nothing is ever normal…

no man you see you got it all wrong an’ shit…I did not steal that cell-phone from Frankie the Fag…you know how dat type be…always accusin’ niggas of this and makin’ up shit I got no idea what the fuck…

Rickie…Rickie…this isn’t good…not good…the rabbi’s ready to kick you out of the synagogue Rickie…no more bed to sleep-in…

this some bullshit Knowledge…fuckin’ bullshit…you know it be true Knowledge…you know it is…

let me ask you a question…

shoot.. 

how’d you get that scar on your cheek…how’d that happen…

you know Goddamn well how dat happened..

yes….yes…you stole from the wrong guy in Rikers…ya’ fucked with the wrong guy…

what da’ fuck Knowledge…

and yes…there is a price when that is done…yes…right…

uh…you think Frankie the Fag gonna’ slice me…dat mother-fucker betta’ think again an’ shit…

he’s not the worry here…right…

right…

yes…Weisman wants your ass gone…he does not like you…he never did…and he’d just as soon you find bedding someplace else…

someplace else.. 

yes…perhaps back at Rikers…

fuck dat shit…

confess to this thing Rickie…this thing you did…make restitution…

make what…

give’em back the fucking Obama phone…what the fuck you gonna’ do with that piece of shit anyway…

uhuh…let me ask this..what if I gave it to you and you said you found it…da Jews always believe your ass..

yes…yes they do Rickie…that’ll cost you…that will cost…saving you from goin’ back on the streets at night…or…Bellevue…The Castle over in  Brooklyn…they beat the shit out of a guy in that joint just the other night….naw…it’s gonna’ cost slick Rick…

whatchyou want…always somethin’…always be negotiatin’…what’ll it be…

now you’re talkin’ Rickie…that’s the smart move…yes…we’ll talk…

soon it will be back to the streets…someplace…some city…

moving in and out of people on sidewalks…jazz-joints…midnight diners where tranny whores down milkshakes…drunken couples talk loudly…police and thieves seated side by side…and redheads pour coffee and laugh at my jokes…

back to shelters and drop-in centers…sweating bullets in a broken system…waiting for meds to deliver me from temptation…there is always temptation…

weekly trips to art museums…daily mass…readings of poetry in pubs and coffee houses…always listening…to old men talk shop…conflicted suburban divorcees on shopping sprees then down on their knees in need of something different…speed-freaks…junkies…salesmen…guys askin for a buck or two…Polacks and Dagos looking for fights…observe and record…always taking notes…

this craft will kill me…i’m O.K. with taking a bullet…sleeping among bedbugs…homeboys howling at hookers on street corners…showing-up at shooting galleries and crack dens to pull brothers out…all for a story…a poem…a new language…

soon it will be back to the streets…someplace…some city…

New York, New York…you’re a cold whore in search of a victim…swallowed me whole…money paid…sacrifices made… never enough for you dear Gotham…

jazz was not enough…poetry poured out from my soul… tossed aside…you give and you give and you give…and you New York offered nothing but heartache…look out for yourself first…you said…

i wish i could, i told you, but…i have a soul…a foolish soul that falls in love too easily…too fast…brakes are never applied…

so i will leave you New York… search for another…and another after that and others to follow…

you won’t be my last…i never learn…never…

you mind if I read…

no…not at all..

really…

yea…

really…

let me tell you something…there’s nothing sexier than a broad wearing a tee-shirt and a pair of glasses reading a book in bed…

really…

absolutely…here…put this on… and turn to chapter five…

a station-wagon…nothin’ fancy…parked in-front of a trailer in Arkansas with tall wet grass…white shoes stained… streaks of green…these things remembered…

sitting atop vents blowing warm air through checkered pajamas on cold February mornings…waiting for hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows afloat…sipped through a gap in the teeth…melting white dots picked one by one by one by one…all gone…

and solace was sought in time alone…tossing a football to myself…talking amongst spirits and ghosts only known to boys and girls when trouble seemed near…trust was at stake…be careful… careful…

trips to Dallas in summer’s heat…a car filled with kids and Divinity from Stuckey’s…clam strips at Howard Johnson’s…radio turned-off…,Do you want me to stop this car…I will mister…, always the threat…always…

fear has gone…now looking back…seeing in-front of me nothing but broken pieces never to be fixed…always too late…what was i scared-of…nothing…nothing…

it is 2 in the morning…i’m thinking of you…

now here’s what we gonna’ do…listen now…

yea…

I’m takin’ you to the Arab’s on the corner…gonna’ introduce ya’….

yea…

gonna’ give ’em $100 in stamps and he gonna’ payout $60…got it…

sure…

cash…in yo’ pocket…

O.K. …

den ya’ gonna’ pay me a finder’s fee… for settin’ you up and shit…

yes…

only a $10 spot…yo ass won’t find no betta’ deal…

and how much does the Arab pay you…

dats ‘tween me and the Arab…

what’s ’round your neck..

this…

yea…

Padre Pio…

huh…

Catholic saint…did a lot for the poor…church up in the Bronx named after him…

i spent nights there…stayed-up talking to monks…balding bearded guys with hearts of gold… 

was good…talk ’bout books…music…politics…prayers…very smart…very smart…

you Catholic…

i am… loyalty…

loyalty…

i owe them… fed me…clothes.. a bed at night…no questions…no judgments…they listened…

Protestants don’t do that…

Protestants are very American…there is a price placed…

how…

chapel required…tithes handed over…guilt…you reap what you sow…you did this to yourself now dig your way out..a punishment for being poor…compassion cost…

Protestants…

fuck the Protestants…

your family Protestant…

my point exactly…

it is a coolness calling this morn…

maybe fall will come early…

 hope…

wanting peace…

senseless…

nothing gained…

Baton Rouge… Chicago…Milwaukee…Dallas…what was the point…

reminded of ’68…

there is no past…always was…

kill kill kill shoot shoot shoot set fires rob stores murder this guy arrest that one over there in the hoody pin him down mouth-off off a cop make the talk-show circuit and on and on and on…too much…too much…

and then there were two…

maybe fall will come early…