dmseay

it was seventy-five outside…eighty-two in the house….an Indian blanket covered the old man as he slept in half darkness with a night-light shining….showing a path..

pop…asleep in the living-room Lazyboy….with a glass of melted ice and Pepsi can by his side….just lay there…scars exposed…liver-spots revealed…old-age had come…

how strange to look at him…this different man…no longer a traveller …neither a driver…an engineer…a cook…or a bagger…just a body in wait…

and… he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for…maybe for heaven on high…perhaps Buddha’s notion of nothingness….a vision from Vishnu….not a single prophet on the horizon…

he waits…and he waits….and he waits…maybe to go see mom….go settle a score with a father who was a roust-a-bout….or a wife….Southern gentleness who took Faulkner too far….

waiting for something…some-thing to take him away….it’s over….

and he knows it…

and he asked if faith was enough…
the belief that when all is said and done there is a heaven…a safe… warm place filled with love…a god filled with love…

his face was young…pitch black with an African tongue and whiskey on the breath…it’s the little things we’re thankful for…

I don’t know, I told him, Is that what you want your heaven to be?, a look out the bus window and a nodding of a drunken head…

this place is cold, the African said, Too cold, the kid drew in smily faces upon fogged glass…, It’s not what I thought…

No…I’m sure it’s not, picking up a dropped bottle on the floor…., Plastic…thank God for plastic, white teeth shined…

when I get to heaven…I will have the biggest mansion on the street of gold, he laughed…,The biggest…

you know what I think?

what?

I think you’re adapting to America very well….

debris floats on fountain’s water while homeless girls in tank tops….trampstamps take dips among plastic bottles…candy bar wrappers..duck shit…

Boys on the side…watching…comparing war stories of vagabond glory…drugged dazes….the smell of spice floats…

and cops peddle through…a look to the corners where bj’s are given for a pack of smokes….inflation…

old drunks taking naps….claiming territory….mark your spots gentlemen….

soon night will fall…

the streets after midnight seemed quiet…nothing boisterous…not loud…gentle..

the avenues and boulevards were of light and fragrances of rose and lilies invited a stranger to walk among boutiques and half filled cafes…

never knowing the next move…lost in a city as old as tombs of alabaster…with painted ladies peeling…and columns reaching for…stretching out…to a starry night..

and languages mumbled in thick tongues through mustache mouths…men leaning on men…glancing at my silence..

I feel at home in these streets…on this rue…no need to wander any longer….

goodbye America….goodbye….

messages coming-in after midnight…long after reading pieces of Mailer..An American Dream…how I loved that Southern songstress…

neither lover wanting to call the other out…a showing of the hand dealt…keep-it lite boy….keep-it lite…don’t let her see ya sweat…

and alone in a dimmed lamp room words are placed on a page to be sent…in a matter of seconds…the truest of thoughts…or…concealed ideas…

to wear a disguise or not…to be seen as the persued…not the persuer…but wanting a catch on the end of the line…always waiting ashore….

I have no bait to throw…just words…mere words and the ability to play it cool when cool is called-for….and…it is always called-for….

the heart on the sleeve is a dangerous target…never moving…never hiding…never unseen….how could one miss?

multi-layers are required…love is not for the weary….it never was..

satelite dishes lined the back yards..
rows of them where corn..
sunflowers…and greens once grew…bringing in signals while inside the old man watched Sunday morning television shows….

he just kept flipping through channels….nothing catching his eye…an occasional comment, Boy that Trump sure is a nutjob…
and who does she think she’s foolin,’ he’d say…continuing to flip…

outside the sun and the warmth began…the wet grass shined…there was a smell of alfalfa…but the old man stayed inside….away from nature…

Bernie Sanders, pop said, Well…we got a black guy in there….why not a New York Jew….uh?…..

then dad poured his Pepsi…was quiet…flipped some more on the remote…said, Uh….progress…

let me live among the Gypsies…peasants in the streets of Paris…sitting on park benches babbling incoherently to no-one..I’d feel right at home…

give us today our daily bread…Sartre..
Beckett..Camus….it’s all that is needed…no other nourishment required….

just simplicity…seeking my own truth…a truth that does not hinder thought…expression…idealism..we who seek this truth….punished…yet our pay is greater than any merchant’s…

to walk the streets of Paris…far away from the commerce of New York…L.A….or ….Tuscaloosa…just seek truth…and let your gates be open….

in following the paths of dreamers…of dreams…our riches will unfold…

and so I long for the Gypsy life…the poet…the dancer…not the pawn

get me to Paris…

the wind caresses trees in pop’s backyard…leaves flutter and clouds roll grey through an early June comfort….the old man sleeps…he’s finally sleeping…

awake all night in dreams…out of nightmares….ghosts visiting…souls lounging…but…the heart keeps beating….though he wished it would stop…

I’m just tired of it all, dad said…placing Visine in eyes worn out, Tired of everything…she was my everything..

and I hand him a blanket…wrap it over a pot belly…and tell him goodnight…

Let’s leave here tomorrow, he said, Go far…far away….an escape, half in a sleep, Wouldn’t that be nice..
wouldn’t it?….

yes dad…yes it would…

the wind caresses trees in pop’s backyard…

a six year sentence….of movement from place to place…town to town…never wanting to be in the here and now….always looking down the road….

subways…busses…parked cars..making beds in church basements…park benches….metal chairs….finding corners in libraries…all is fair in the finding of sleep….

and always watching over the shoulder….one eye always open…a constant apraisal…of mugs…thugs…drugs….mental cases…junkies stealing sugar packets at Starbucks….bathrooms in disarray….

not knowing the next step…or….where I will land…could be anywhere…

maybe….next to you…

American men walk around all day….troll bars at night with cocks in hand and hearts on sleeves…too scared to take the chance….make a stand…state their piece…living in fear of not getting laid….not winning the prize…waking-up alone on Sunday mornings without French toast and an obligatory embrace….

cowards…Men jumping through hoops…standing on hind legs…begging…

America commits these vile acts…wanting to be loved…we don’t understand why Parisians tell us to fuck-off…

old glory…America…the young…hep guy on a Friday night scene who goes to the gym…shows off pecs and guns…agreeing with every ridiculous word from the mouths of babes….

what is gained in this circus act?…respect…prestige… new frontiers…one would hope for a reward…

too high a price at being number one…too much pressure…too much at stake….

however…if this piece is read a hundred years from now…the same question will emerge…

what the fuck happened?