dmseay

had a small heart attack last night, the old man said, little bitty one…just hit and was gone, his voice sounding the same…nothing weak…

shouldn’t take any trips today, pulling a blanket up over his scared body, like Dallas….or Colorado….maybe somethin’ close-by…but no major trips….

he closed his blood-shot eyes and folded his tethered arms over a led-belly, I’ll let you know if I need to go to the hospital…just stay close-by, and I did…

you can just drive me over there to the Lutherans…to be taken care of by Jews, he smiled…., had to take your mom in an ambulance….closest to death as anyone could be without dying….

pop took a swig of warm Pepsi, she had that stroke and her eyes just rolled backwards…her body just fell to the floor….she just lay there lookin’ lifeless…

if she wouldn’t had died shed’ been a vegetable I bet, took another drink, that’s the thing with a heart attack….it either takes you or it don’t….nothin’ inbetween….

she was just layin’ there, he whispered…I tried to wake her up…but she was gone…I knew it…

let’s go to Dallas….I got some old girlfriends down there….I talk to them on the computer everday…

dad….the computer’s broken…

let’s go….we’ll find ’em….

who pop?

the girls…we’ll find them girls….come on now….let’s go….you gonna drive me?.., I remained seated…looking at this skinny old man…gone…gone….gone…

fine..I’ll do it myself…

I watch the Hudson and look across at Jersey in lit fashion as choppers fly over and lovers stroll-by and skateboards roll and cars cruise along and blunts are smoked and talk of eateries in The Village and drinks later-on and words spoken into microphones…cellphones…some to themselves….and a crazy on every corner…..I watch the Hudson….

I look at the East River and into Queens where a Pepsi sign glows and egg rolls are made and Indian food is delivered to  cute couples staying in for the night and a glow shines off buildings and the bridge is packed and red-lights are ran through and waters seem calm…but all is not…..I look at the East River…

I take the 6 train up to the Bronx…
where cash will be made for illegal efforts…where bodega owners are on the take where PA buildings loom over parks in disrepair…where Hunts Point is being sold-off to the highest bidder…..where Arroz con Pollo is still five bucks…..I take the 6 train to the Bronx…

I see the art museum in Brooklyn shining a light in the night where jazz is listened to and the Hep drink craft beers and Williamsburg now looks like Wicker Park and many are still neglected and they always will be as America goes on and on and on in celebration of what…I see the art museum in Brooklyn….

and I notice the hookers on Staten Isle…and the junkies and the cops patrolling the docks and the Statue of Bigotry and cheaper rents and yes…an hour wait for another ferry as I notice the hookers on Staten Isle..

I watch the Hudson….it’s muddy waters…it’s mixing with other bodies….I watch the Hudson…I watch the Hudson…

just watch…the poem will come….

listening to a voice…
an old soul speaking…
of Buddha..of Vishnu…of Christ’s doubts…for this world…for this world..

madder than a hatter…
with language placed on policed lists…
what should be read…and shouldn’t..
this will be decided for you…

the preaching against the tide….
be an individual…
leave the masses behind…
bring forth your own truth…

that’s what Jack did…
that is what a poet does..
there is solace in singularity….

this is the prophet’s life…
and yet it is always in question…
those in fear….those who never..
those who never…

to give-up all…
to travel a lonesome road…
to not want..
and we are called crazy…not normal….
oh….please count me in..

that voice….that old soul does not speak to you…
it never did….
or maybe …..you just didn’t listen…

travelled from North to see her name….etched out on stone atop others there before her….with flowers adorning vaults….ashes to ashes…

I didn’t want that for her, the old man said, I wanted a proper burial….not burnt offerings, he looked away…taking glasses off..
rubbing blood-shot eyes….

is this what she wanted?, I asked, Did she want this?

Well, he looked at me, Yes….yes she did…..I don’t understand…but she did…

Then that’s what you do…you did the right thing…

Yeah…..I s’pose…I just hope it didn’t hurt her…

walking down 1st Avenue looking at what used to be the Irish taverns…the pubs…where horses were bet-on…books were made…all bets were off…guys talkin’ straight…pint after pint after pint…while corned-beef sandwiches were served by Paddy…or Johnny…or …..some Mick name….WASPS NOT WELCOME….

drafts of Harp…Guiness…Murphys…with black-n-tans and whiskey whiskey whiskey….guys using parking meters for walking sticks….struggling in Hell’s Kitchen for their time spent in Purgatory….sins paid for while other debts lay in wake…

tabs unpaid…killed-off before coupon redeemed…bartenders listening and souls cleansed…no broad’s allowed…gather ’round boys….

and times change….1st Avenue is no longer….Hell’s Kitchen…. no longer….New York….no longer…

a man is not a man….a minch not a minch… and a Mick just a fashion complete with a Celtic Knot branded to upper arms…

cobwebs cling to chimes…rattling in a breeze on the back porch where an eastern sun peaks through the sky…a slight song is played…ghosts hum along….

and weeds grow in a garden where wild strawberries and rose petals plucked by wind lay next to them…she would never’ve allowed that…

chairs in dust…a footstool…a butter churn…an old smoker where Tom Turkey always sat at Thanksgiving’s eve…..more wine…more wood….more love…

everything looks old now….leaves strewn cross blades of yellowed grass….and I hear ghosts calling….sometimes a shout….sometimes a whisper….they’re always around…

and constantly letting me know that I won’t be….

travels from Cleveland to Asheville to Iowa City to New Haven to Montpelier to Montreal to New York to St. Louis to Indiana to St. Louis to Cincinnati to Newport to New York to….to….to

with fierce rapid thoughts on buses running cross state lines in midnight hours and babies crying out in the dark for moms and dad’s and aunts and foster parents and drunks talking loud on cell phones to ex-lovers who broke their hearts while some kind of peace is sought….

and into hospital beds and blood drawn and madmen yelling with pretend megaphones in hand and nobody’s home while crazy broad’s offer goods and services to psych-techs with meds dispensed….Goodnight nurse….

on shelter cots and city parks…hidden in the dark away from the cops who stroll- by with sticks in hand and guns on hips…like old Wyatt Earp….lookin’ for those who hide from all…entangled within…only hoping for a miracle in the fourth quarter…just a sprig of hope…

books in bag…balking at society’s norms…and hoping for a coolness in the city heat….

head north young man…head north… and do not look back…

she had survived 911…homelessness….bouts of paranoia…failed relationships…and America…

used to talk for hours of past loves…past lives…political leanings…and Protestant beliefs…she had her views…and I had mine…

a world where anything is possible and the terror in that…,Anyone can know anything about you at any given time,she said, And they do, her eyes grew wild…

They have files on all of us, her thin lips whispered, They’re just waiting…

For what?, I asked, For who?, she looked away…over one shoulder…then the other at these questions…

For all on the lists…every single last one…I’m on a list…you’re on a list…this world is on a list…shhhhh……,she put her finger to my mouth, shhhhh

You must warn the others, another whisper, Tell them….tell them they’re coming…it’ll be too late for me….shhhh

and with that she was gone….I miss her….

Listening to Kerouac read while Davis and Coltrane pray to a jazz god on high…the muttering coolness of notes hit with soul…as Jack’s voice gives voice to us all….

the wanderer’s…the soloists…the lovers…midnight philosophers in taverns whooping and hollering out, Go man go, as poetry is read…glasses are clinked….and beats are linked….

the sounds of solace…an inner peace despite the outer-limits…walking down Clark….or Broadway….or Grand….in rain…sleet…a cold morning fog…button-up and pray to the Buddha you get home safely…

but…where is home…an apartment….a room in a bedbug bitten building of old….maybe a park bench you’ve had your eye on for weeks….only to be lost in the last quarter….

and Kerouac reads while Davis and Coltrane pray…

let us all bow our heads…

old bones hurt as rainbows…sunlight…and morning comes due…bones that have been plucked over time….leaving behind fragments here and there…someday to be discovered…
discarded in a bar under bottles of booze….or a river….picked at by a bottom-feeder…old bones…

and I said there was pain….side effects…you smiled, Who doesn’t have that? Buck-up buttercup, was your reply….with a blossomed smile….pain is just part of the process….of old bones…

that is right….the hurt of the hungry….the poor…the addicted….the scared….the whore in the street…the junkie nodded out…the gambler down on his luck…the laborer whose only vice is life…old bones…

when I’m done sweep them away…throw ’em in a pit with the other impoverished…or…like a European monk… a big pile of skulls and arms and legs and pelvic portions…..just get rid of these old bones….

bring me my new robe….