dmseay

the need for quiet…just a quietness of nothing….

away…away from the loudness of America….the commercials…the accusations…the loud void between filled and empty….

it is a pitch…a high piercing pitch…striking the eardrums…the eyes…the spine….all emotions on alert….

and the morning television shows…screaming violence…while death plays out in hushed tones…

we are dying….falling from towers on high…shouting all the way down….to what….a nothing…

and perhaps nothing never counted….

there’s no place to sleep…no address nor zip code to place in the marked box…..

it is New York…the kitchen of this new home called America….built on soft land…replaced with layer upon layer of concrete….steele…fake breasts….commerce and plastic pieces, Plastics Benjamin….plastics….

all is disposable…easily gotten rid of with no evidence left behind…just shred it….

this kitchen…this cocina…this cucina…a full gas range for some….a hot plate for others….the constant search for food….

from Arroz con Pollo of the PR’s to fries with gravy at The White Horse Tavern….buck slices…and on every corner….hallal….hallal….hallal…grilled…seasoned with white yogurt and hot sauce…

standing…eating….contemplating pornography while lights blink…cabs honk…and girls stroll by….lick your lips honey….gloss goes a long way….

red shimmering into the night leaving stains on businessmen’s flys….high atop the Port Authority in a parking lot….

a scarlet shameful stain for all to see….glowing like a neon swizzle stick….wiped away by a monogramed handkerchief given to him by a Jersey wife….these sins we pay for….

guilt felt on Christmas morn as packages of bobbles…bangles…bright shiny things are opened…

and tomorrow….we’ll do it again..the rich will do it again…as will the poor…..lead us not into temptation…but deliver us….

yes…deliver us….

we gotta head down to Texas, the old man said while he rocked in a Lazyboy and poured a Pepsi….

I got three women down there waitin’ on me..let’s get goin’, he wasn’t letting up….

you have a doctor’s appointment today….and….you have no money, I told him, Dad…we just can’t do it…

he looked at me angrily….quietly…..and said, boy…you just get me to Texas….

I used to call her from all over…..Iowa….Vermont….New York….couldn’t get a signal in Canada….

she was always askin’ for money, We sure are broke….Boy….we sure could use a windfall,the old woman said time after time after time….

so money was given….a hundred….two hundred…..leaving me with just enough….

and she wasn’t the only one….gave money to an old friend who kept askin’….I thought to myself while wiring…this is what Catholics do…

never asked for money back….sometimes payments were made….just to turn around an’ loan it to them again and again and again….

she was addicted to money….couldn’t get enough of it….he smoked rocks….drank cheap beer….both were afraid of bein’ alone….always afraid of bein’ alone….

aren’t we all..

been ’round addicts my whole life…crackheads….speedfreaks…….junkies….whores….johns…things that go bump in the night….

drunks piling outta bars at four in the morning all over town….Uptown…Old town….Boys town….this town….is a lonely town….

and the smells of Spice…K2….whatever tag you go by….lingers everywhere….the air a constant funk….seen people crash hard…

swinging violently into space….don’t get near…punches thrown…kicks…the yelling…the screams….little babies watching while mom’s gotta mouthful under the El tracks….

done with this shit….the whole city’s become infested….maybe it always was…

it’s America….pick your poison….

it  comes down to a young woman sitting on a barstool nursing a beer …a practiced drunk….

she looks at me straight in the eye and says, I know from this day foward my life will be nothing more than shit, without a blink…without a squint…she states this just matter of factly….hopeless….the clean have taken over…

the kid knows the truth….they won. …and not only did they win….they flaunted it like an unruly biddy-league team after a wide margin victory….humiliating the opponent while dads in the stands yelled out, That’s my boy….

in a dingy tiled room with walls adorned by posters: EMPLOYMENT IS THE FIRST STEP  TO SELF-RELIANCE, a thirty year old black woman…dreads under a blue rag…rolls of flesh tightly packed in shiny garments….two tots screaming out for Mickey D’s….talks on a cell phone to baby’s daddy Buddha….

he’s laying on a couch at the crib watching a Jew named Maury publicly humiliate soul sister number one anxiously awaiting a DNA test….

get off your fat ass an’ get me three doubles at Checkers nigga, she orders Buddha.

the two-thousand year old philosopher pulls the cell away from the screaming voice, Nigga…my babies gotta eat motha’ fucker, nigga, motha’fucker, Buddha…what’s the difference….an errand-boy by any other name….

Buddha….Buddha…you listenin’….ten in the mornin’ an’ you got that rock blazin’ an’ shit, more yelling…..

nigga you don’t see me sittin ‘ ’round the house hittin’ rock….I’m providin’ for mines nigga….better wake-up niggas….food stamps ain’t gonna be ’round forever….

you listenin nigga, Virgin Mobile minutes ran out while a crack-pipe burned another hole in the foam of a sofa….

and Mary’s still in search of baby’s daddy…..all brought to you by Nescafe and American Life Insurance….

God said to Abraham kill me a son…why stop with one…Empire boys….we’re talkin’ empire….

Coltrane’s Central Park West played as I walked around Manhattan….

a joyous sound….The Village, Upper Westside, SoHo, Chelsea; tears rolling while strolling…tears clean as a baby’s….coming down a red, wind-blown face, unable to shut them off; let ’em roll….

if poverty teaches us anything….it’s that we’re human…prone to repeat the same actions….the same big mistakes over and over….wanting badly to trust and never able to slide home safely…you’re out….

poverty teaches hunger, humility, pain; nothing easy….a life waiting in lines; food stamp lines, soup lines, confessional lines a mile long for sins the impoverished are forced to commit; theft at Whole Foods….always absolved….

and grace is attained….delivering me to the other side…hold out for grace….just hold out for grace….she will save you everytime…..

the gas tank was always on E…..pushed….nothing focused….always asking for money….Western Union desks in grocery stores, pharmacies, bus depots….with northern accents and foreign tongues…..

slept in cars, cots, hospital beds, and bare grounds…..waiting and praying for the messiah to return….

these were the days of homeboys, cops with flashlights, greed, protests, the search for bathrooms in the middle of the night…..

it was the need for shelter…give me shelter….crackheads, hookers, monks, and as always we wish you peace….love….and…. soul…..

sleeping upright in a chair in the Bronx….among God’s chosen….not a dime….always wanting more….the first of the month never came fast enough…..

the constant search for gold….only to find it was emptied years ago by corporations, government officials, elected servants, and Wall Street warriors wandering around offices….making cold calls to Mrs. Zalnich of Buffalo, Get in on this now and I’ll send you a little somethin’ for the grandkids…..

these lucky few…always looking for opportunities….the spreading of wealth to be trickled down….

never did a rain pour…..

….sir…we don’t sell gizzards no more…., she stood at the register, what could I get for you?….

he pondered the $5 deals and scratched his goatee, you say no more gizzards….dat right?

yes sir, she couldn’t been more than eighteen, what could I get for ya?….

why you gotta rush me….why you be rushin’ me….I don’t like bein’ rushed….

sorry sir…didn’t mean to, a line was forming; nothing worse than angry people waiting for chicken….

and you ain’t got no more gizzards….dat right?….goddamn….you know we like gizzards and shit….

sorry sir….

I wants some gizzards….how ’bout you split up a chicken and fry me up some….

sir….I can’t do that….

den fuck this….

next….