dmseay

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….

Lolo took orders….like all of us, Scrambled or fried? a punchy staccato Mexican accent asked, Berrrrry good sir, and ouila…..the magicians wand was waved….

Berrrrry good sir, heard everywhere in the joint….an opera….a musical with dancing Greeks counting the till and Blonde Russians smacking gum with flirtations given away for free……maybe……

But…Jimmy stands tall….needing nothing but his job…his family….his pride…..

I should retire, the Cretin says, Too cold….too much….what you think?

Jimmy….you’d be dead in a week….

Right….better work…

The realization of poverty….to have nothing….only your wits about you….having been in the muck…..nothing to see here….all tossed aside….done away with….distributed along roadsides….alleyways….parking-lot  dumpsters…..

And then what….a nagging to oneself….How did I get stuck? Where’s my quid….a buck….a dollar…maybe shekels….?

None for you is the answer…..and you’ll learn to like that….or else….

It could be worse….you could be in a foreign country….eh?

Don’t bring that socialistic thought around here…..we’ll show you a thing or two..

Now….stop cryin’…get ta’ bed….

The thieves have work to do…..

What turns you on? she asked coyly…..did she want an answer? She got one..

Being in my room on rainy days….Coltrane blowin’ Body and Soul…..Makin’ a meal with a broad perched on a stool; hand wrapped ’round red with Green Dolphin Street playin’; Evans’ or Miles’ either will do…..

Strolling in Pelham Bay Park…..rides on the #2 train…..a slice of cheesecake shared…..books….books….books….a poem…..an elder’s remarks…..options open….

Talkin’ to ghosts…..praying to gods….hope for a future… writing about pasts……new meds with no side effects….a $1 slice…..

Love…..

Anything else?

No…..no…..that’ll do it…

Prince William playing Cricket….no problems in dear old India….Kate, the endearing wife looks-on…..swing batter…

Dexies Midnight Runners sing-out undying love of Eileen….while piles of potatoes…mountains of ’em slathered in butter salt pepper grease soaking-in…..and in breaking news…..

All the good people of Kansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska lay in bed wondering….thinking….what are those writers in New York doing?

The same as you compratriots….the same as you…