dmseay

the old man kept talking in past tense, I’ve been to Japan….been to Sweeden….hell…I’ve been all over the world, an arrogance spewed…

I was an Eagle Scout don’t you know, he stoically said, Got that at fifteen, another boast..

Your mom was proud of me, he said, She was sure proud….met her  when I was twenty…..she was eighteen….robbed the cradle, he smiled….ran brittle fingers through thin gray..

Boy I miss her….ugh….I really miss her…….(pause)…Did I tell ya’ I been to Sweeden…..

a different young man walks North Avenue at this time…on his way downtown with a cup of coffee and a dry roll….keep going….gotta get there…past closed bars where cleaning crews mop spilled beer….thrown popcorn….credit card reciepts….phone numbers of midnight oral fixations….and arrogance…..

the arrogance of youth out looking for a piece….a taste..entitled…the work has been done that keeps this nation afloat….greasing the chains of economic progress…this country is their’s….

there are whore’s walking North in this hour…going home to single room occupancies for a rest from working all night on their knees….bent behind garbage dumpsters….reeking of piss and thrown out with sauer kraute from Polish joints along with drunks by tough old Polack broads at the end of the night…
a Nelson Algren dream….

the black bitches still looking for that last dollar before sunrise….chicks with dicks the same…no saints…only sinners…aren’t we all…

and still he keeps walking…gotta get there…gotta be on time…

Mars shined last night…letting off an abundant light…a glow of red…pomegranate red…or Ruby red…I was told…

missed the show…talks of brownish clay paving walls from West Texas into New Mexico…seen it when I was a kid..
on my way to LA….on the run….

remembered the old man the Greyhound picked up in Oklahoma City…..kept saying, Where’s Phoenix….Where’s Phoenix…, he’d had a few

I thought to myself as he yelled out..on and on…..somewhere in an Arizona trailer park is a family of kids playing poker with beer cans astrewn…

the loser has to go pick-up dad at the bus station…

there is no peace….not for Buddha…nor baby’s momma…or momma’s baby…just the on-going drip of poverty’s riches….a New York benny card with $200 in food stamps…always swapped for some dough at the Arab joint on the corner….

the SSI check comes on the 1st for Buddha..strange voices lurk in the ears of those who listen….baby girl will be taught to hear those voices as well in her life….

voices saying…buy…buy…sell…sell…Wall Street is never far away…it’s as close as a billboard with a curvy black broad holding a bottle of Martel….or sharing a laugh with a lover while holding a Newport between caramel fingers with red long tips……

those nails were never anxiously bit over the loss of a job…a house…a car taken away in the middle of the night….with college loans to get you through trade school….cause baby girl’s pregnant and who done fucked her in the hood….

no time for cheerleading…or speeches at high school graduations….just roll baby…’cause this ain’t Woody Allen’s Manhattan…ain’t no Sex In The City neither….this is Hunts Point…..

and there are no copies of The Times at the bodegas….just The Post and El Diario read by weary eyed PR’s after a night of Sabado Gigante…..

and Buddha blazes….starting another day..Goodnight baby’s momma…goodbye baby girl…

l remember Locust Bayou….an old wooden church down a rocky dirt road with a hundred or so crackers singin’ to the tune of a pitch-pipe…With your heart make a joyful noise….

and every Sunday the stale crackers and Welches Grape juice…Do this in remembrance of me…cash laid in passed plates…bills…a ten….a twenty…leading up to the big show….

a rousing sermon calling for all sinners….,Come forth…confess that Jesus Christ is Lord…and you are but lowly, the cattle call with praises-be shouted out and Amen being sung from a hymnal….

shouts of glory with bodies arising from a makeshift tub of water….pastor and sinner, turned child of God, dressed in soaked white, Death to sin…and alive to Christ…..

I remember Locust Bayou….an old wooden church down a rocky dirt road…with a hundred or so crackers singin’ to the tune of a pitch-pipe….

seated at the table…she seemed so content….almost happy…like a baby in a highchair being spoonfed ….organic carrots..
farm raised lamb…pure…very pure…

always trying to slip past her the truth….nothing is pure…nothing organic…forced…all being forced…

she didn’t want to hear of it…just keep feeding her lies…let her be happy in half-truths…out and out lies….

Fiction is what they want, she said, Why should I be any different?….

You’re right, I told her, You’re right….now…shut-up and eat your peas…

a spoon was thrown…a fit ensued….back to square one…here comes the train….chooo…..chooo…

too late…her mouth was closed….

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..