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Dearest god…father…….mother of all…to all…in all…because of all….made man….man made…a deity to believe in…never in question….always questioned…as I do now…..

A blonde haired blue eyed jew….turned over an empire….sure he wasn’t black…or of olive skin….lineage of David…of Soloman….songs….fables…moral tales to tell again and again and again….

Nothing of Vishnu…Mohammed….Buddha….a theocracy….of democracy…..on whose behalf?….George….Benjamin….presidents and pawns….presidents and pawns…that’s who’s prayed to….not Vishnu…nor Mohammed….or Buddha….

“God does not want you to suffer,” quips the television whore in the name of Jesus….Is he reading the same book….

Dearest god…Father….Mother….I plead the fifth…..now….render your sentence….

Didn’t know you…never thought I did….just meandered through mazes…. puzzles…..was love nearby…..

There was Paris…Quebec….New York…..never on spot….always different venues…..You walked-out on Rickie Lee Jones…..

Such anger at the end…..over …The cursing…. swearing… vengence….lies…..for what….

Just ’cause we could…..just ’cause we could….

It was spite….was anger… ego…..was pomp…. circumstance…..

’twas nothing…..only a dream….

All is not given-up…there is jazz….the beats…..Baldwin….and a cat named Carroll……

Books are gathered like groceries….plenty of proteins…vegetables….an ocassional sweet or two….Ginsberg for desert; he’d have liked that..

And…the Book of Blues lay on a table….a reach away…San Francisco Blues….MacDougal Street Blues….Kerouac sings and I listen….who could not…..

It’s a Saturday…..it’s a Saturday….maybe calm will prevail…over loud car stereos….mufflers ajar….motherfucker this and fuck you that on my street corner….a stained shirt…..

Bronx Blues….Bronx Blues….no need for rhyming schemes….the colors apply themselves….all you gotta do….is look….

American flags stuck in a lamppost as the eagle glares at mountains and hills of steel with concrete valleys below…..mocking it….teasing it….

Statues of men forgotten….thousands squimmer….simmer…talking non-stop on cellular devices….wanting to close that last deal……move swiftly…..move swiftly….

Selfies shot by Japanese tourists and Italians and French and Russians and Finnish and Danes and Germans and Australians and Arkansans…..maybe not Arkansans….

What is the draw to this place?….this Grand Central Station….this Pershing Square…..

It is commerce….it is art….it is ingenuity….it is marketing….branding….a little of the old with buoyant youth showing skin and smarts and tech saavy…..

It is Manhattan…..

It is Manhattan glaring at all who face it; salesmen, traders, lawyers, judges, beatbox boyfriends, homeless vets, crackheads, junkies, Marines in uniform, cops with chops, armed psychopaths, and drug sniffing dogs……

It is Manhattan…..it is……

Those who own….and those without a dime to scratch off a lottery ticket…..

Money coming and going….exchanging hands of hotdog vendors, cashew roasters, baristas, K2 dealers, pawnshop hustlers, men passing bills through peep-show holes, backpage ads at 3 in the morning, I’m Uptown baby…..two-fitty roses is what I require…..

It is high stakes….nothing to lose….never had it to begin with and never will…..

This is Manhattan…..No…..This is America…..sweet land of liberty….of thee I sing…..of thee I sing….

Two old Jews sat eating chicken salad prior to Passover….kosher….sure….why not….

They talked of old times….wives….kids…Johnny Carson….the bread is too crusty…..too much mayo…on and  on and on….their sympathies were as strict as their diets…

Different world today, the Einstein impersonator said, Too fast….too much….., talking of Manhattan, I understand nothing….nothing….

This is true, a smile from his partner, This is true, an old withered hand reached ‘cross the table…
A kiss was stolen….the two old-timers winked at air…

Here’s to old times, cups clinked…the two kissed again….

Gentlemen….have a good day…

Charlie Parker….sitting like Buddha…a musician as important as Beethoven….though never recognized as such….

Kerouac reading on The Steve Allen Show…genius…piano played by the talk show impresario….And don’t you know God is Pooh Bear….
…reading works of literary magic….a magician….a shaman….a minch….a writer….
Long gone the day’s of poetry….the days of discourse……

There’s no longer a Ginsberg….a Kerouac…..and no…..nor a Heron…..The bottle took two of those…and bennies….and crack and goofballs…..and speedballs….

Only language left….beautiful language…

I’ll take that….

Time for local news….New York’s number one news…Eyewitness News….Fox upfront report on what makes people swear…..curse….froth at the mouth….provocative pictures after this important message….

The city that used to never sleep now slumbers….tourists planning assault actions….while protesters picket in front of hotels where hairdos hangout and cameras shoot pix from high above….

And trains run….never on time….Knicks lose again and again and again…longing for the days of Clyde….

This city is asleep….only the somnombulists weave ’round New York’s grave yard…..

Hoping to see ghosts……

Come out….come out wherever you are….

She put out her cigarette….snarled, I could listen to twenty-five different versions of “On Green Dolphin Street” in a row and never get bored, the snarl became a whiskey whisper….this was love…..

From Miles to Evans to Keith Jarret to Coltrane to Os….well…not big on Peterson’s randetion….too symphonic….too over the top….simplicity’ the name of that dish….

Lapping it up like a cat to milk; sat in a gaze while she whittled away at my youth….

That song….it’s a National anthem for God’s sake, another smoke lit, It should only be played by the best…

No objection here sweets….
Sorry, not really, Do you object to sweets….or broad…or dame?

My dear boy, back arched, If so….you’d’ve been gone long ago…

Meefuckingow……

Bronx Zoo is south….Grand Concourse on down….Fordham Road….Bronx beauties walking in pairs….homeboys giving stares….and PR’s with music pulsing…two stepping ‘cross streets…..

The New York Times isn’t sold up here…..demographics….numbers don’t add up…..it’s Manhattan’s paper anyway…..Sunday yuppie readings of Rap’s romances…

And Arroz con Pollo is sold on the cheap…..the brothers at Pio’s hand out pizza to men who wished they had more…..while Hunts Point moves from mayhem to marketing…

Changes….they are a comin’…..get ready.

Soon all the poor will be dancing in the swamps of Jersey…..as money grows and grows and grows….

Start pickin’….the green is ripe….

We used to talk during our walks with dogs…..Norman lagging behind Floyd….it wouldn’t always be that way….

A beautiful Newfoundland….Floyd was….while Norman, named after Mailer, a drunken Irish-man….he’d made the Jewish wordsmith proud…..

They were two….we were two….it was family….it was comfort in chaos…..Never enough….money….sex….comroadary..one on the road….the other with thoughts of the poet’s life….you can’t have both….

Walks in fields of fall….or spring with tall graases waving…Hills to climb….,Write a book ’bout a dog that saves a marriage….it’ll sell millions, You said. Shook my head….laughed….it was the millions you wanted….

I miss walking dogs…..I miss walking dogs….