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Listen….I’m tellin’ you…..you can’t trust any of these people….them….us…we’re all damaged….broken….they’ll slit your throat over a buck thirty-five on a SNAP card, Golden fidgeted, moved long fingers inside tight jean pockets….

All these guys have done time….none of ’em are clean, He lit a menthol, Rikers…The Tombs….Up State….rape…murder…sex offenders…that’s what you’re sleepin’ next to every night….

Golden slid a smoke from his pack; Kid took it, lit-up, and covered a cough, Don’t show these mother fuckers nothin’, Golden grabbed Kid’s shoulders and squared them, Lie about everything in your life to them….or better yet…don’t say a word…..

Let’s get some dinner, The two turned to the shelter door and waited in line with fifty other guys; old, young, black, Hispanic, white, Asian, drag-queens, hustlers, and crazies….God’s children….

I’m tellin’ ya’ Kid…..they’re turnin’ me into a Republican….

Jimmy the Gent rolled his cuffs up past fat wrists resting on a counter-top, Give me the 24, the waiter jumped to it…..

Fuckin’ heart attack on a plate Jimmy, his friend St. Pat said with a swig of soda, Heart attack….heart attack….heart attack….

Ya sound like a hoosier, Jimmy told ’em, Like some Midwest Dudley Do-Right, and, before their eyes sat the #24: pastami, corned beef, roast beef and Russian dressing piled thick on rye….aye….aye….aye…

Jesus Jimmy….Jesus Fuckin’ H Christ….

You know, Jimmy crammed half a sandwich in his thick-lipped covered mouth, Again with the Midwest bullshit….Let me tell ya somethin’, he dipped the ‘wich in the slight pink sauce,

I’ll never go west of Philly my friend…..the farther west you go….the dumber America becomes….in fact…..I don’t plan on ever goin’ past 5th Avenue…

Pass the salt….

Heart attack Jimmy….Fuckin’ heart attack.

The selling of Metra cards….discounts on loosies… a bill gets ya $60 for stamps at Bronx bodegas and joints in Jersey…..

Times are turned….on you…..and you….and you…..A non-stop wheel and deal….everything must go….

Old vinyl…books collected over the years….campaign buttons…whatever it takes….Rent’s  due…

Obama phones hawked for a buck…..Girls on the prowl at Hunts Point…..they’ll bend and blow for a fin….

But what’s ’round the corner….what’s comin’ ’round the bend…..next month….the eagle flys……for a week…..

Then….we start all over again…..and again…..and again…..

Brandi Carlile sings Hallelujah on a parked car radio outside of Watertown….after Irene hit…leaving a mess that only a scorned woman could create….

She came-up from Manhattan….blew through Gotham…collected many a man’s wallet….money clips….pockets turned inside out….buildings turned upside down…

Her blowing wouldn’t stop….Good ol’ boys in Vermont wanted proof….Proof she gave….

Irene offered no true love…..just an over-night affair that wrecked homes….hotel suites….offices….friendships… families…Never second guess a broad’s intent….never….

Brandi Carlile sings Hallelujah  on a parked car radio outside of Watertown….

There is peace….

Morning in Manhattan and Dixieland jazz plays in a coffee house while cable news tells tales of Trump’s woes…..

Fights at rallys…..talks of walls…name calling….fist- pumping …A script straight from Morton Downey Jr……

And the sophisticates….no better….Nouveau Riche branded Mod-Dems….talk of stock options….Dale Carnegie….and how  unions are no-longer needed….It’s good to be the King…

As the music plays…. The Village idiots stroll-by….words once uttered by a youth rings loud… too loud.. “Why should I go see some toothless old nigger sing about problems I’ll never have…..”

Meanwhile….the jazz plays…turning into blues….More pushing and shoving on TV…..And only music is heard…sweet….sweet….trumpets of Gabriel….

Well….it was fun while it lasted….

They piss me off, the old-timer sittin’ at the corner of the bar said. Fat white chick’s sittin’ wit a couple ah shines, a gulp of Budweiser was taken. And why you might ask…. ‘Cause she’s too insecure to get a white guy…..uh…  right, said Billy Fitzgerald, as the neighborhood joint began to spill-out and into the streets of St. Louis’ northside.

Look around you, Billy dragged a Marlboro, all these skinny white broads….dressed nice….look good. …you think some stinkin’ no good shine’s gonna take one ah dem home, a head shook no, and Billy sang along to a Stevie Wonder song…., Fuck no….

And dees shines dey brag
’bout it….like it was a new car or somethin’……Imagine dat….braggin’ ’bout bangin’ some fat broad….da mind of a shine….

Heard one the other night….he said…Man…dis white bitch’s name was Brittany….or….was it Madison?….some shit….Whys  can’t dey have normal names like Jonquel….or…or….Laquesha…..Goddamn….,Fitzgerald let out a chuckle….a slight grin….

Billy rolled off the barstool and turned to the door. From down at the other end a young lady’s voice called out, Billy…..Your tab…..

Keep it rollin’ Ms….keep it rollin’…

She sat behind plated glass….phone in hand….making promises and forecasts…..

A sexual vagabond…always looking for a home….a safe bet….something to keep me warm….

Her voice….that Southern drawled Bourbon voice was the seducer…
Wasn’t the loose caboose….the carved-out bosom….the waxed Brazilian job…

It was that scratchy Bourbon voice….gluing me…..placing dollar after dollar after dollar into a slot….her slot….all was for the taking…

And next month….we’ll meet again…guarenteed….

She knows every toilet code in Chelsea…In her dew covered head….every single code….

McDonald’s at 7th and 34th…..Starbucks on 8th and 32nd….Gregory’s Coffee at 7th and 30th….everyday…..punching codes on silver keys 3619…5294….1687…2810…..a smile and turn of the handle for all…

And neatness is practised….nothing left behind….all waste is flushed…. prepared for the next customer….the next vagabond….the next tourist….the next….the next…..the next….

She knows every toilet code in Chelsea….In her dew covered head….every single code…

There are knights… there are nobles….And then….there is Chet Baker…..

There are poets and philosophers ….And then…..there is John Coltrane…

There are kings…..And then….there is Miles….

There are gods….Goodness….gracious…there are gods….And then…..there is Bill Evans….

Once upon a time music was beautiful…..once upon a time…..

There they stood….darkened…downstairs…standing by two-holed booths: ONE PERSON PER BOOTH….NY STATE LAW…NO TALKING IN LINE….. whispers

Pot-bellied tight tee-shirts worn by old fractured failings in the worlds of romance……Never-ending trysts with lads off the buses….found pissing at The Port Authority….payments for services rendered….

Either go to a booth or leave, the Punjab declares, This is not free show….

Noises of fucking…..sucking…and Bollywood musicals play deep into the mornings after midnights each and everyday with a thirty minute cleansing of the seeds from man….

No-one stands love struck….nor wanted….only wanting….waiting for youth in a tight pair of pants to dance his way back in time when they too were sought…

Look boys….Here he comes now…