dmseay

She was a wreck….a Puerto Rican nightmare with heavy sweats and a rapidly beating heart…..the kind of night-terror that keeps you awake for hours……God help us all….

That voice, Pappi…..Pappi….you go get my cigarettes Pappi, She kept screaming and screaming…..pleading and pleading to a man who’d heard enough……gave-up years ago…..saw the defeat comin’ and has been clinging to the lost cause ever since…..

Pappi….Pappi….here, a bill was flit, Now go….go….go Pappi, a fling of purple dyed hair swung ’round….casting out angles… calling on devils….

Lips were licked with a turn to the next guy, Where were we Pappi?

Her errand-boy never returned…..some say he’s at a sober house in Jersey……Some say they saw him off of Florida….My mother said she saw ‘ him in Chinatown…..but….you can’t always trust your mother….

And the PR broad still wheels and deals from one drop-in center to the next…..Lookin’ for another mutt to fetch….good luck mommy…..good luck…..

Hey Pappi….you gotta lite?……

Thanks to Lou Reed for the Florida and the Chinatown line. (American Whale, New York album).

Standing dangerously close to the yellow line….Do Not Cross….A Number 6 Is Now Approaching…..Stand Clear Of The Doors Please…..

Thoughts drift to a date with number 6.. ..To kiss the front glass….. slide down to the rusted tracks…to lie flat as paper drawn-upon….. Nothing’s ever that neat….

It’s not a Warner Bros. cartoon….How many times did Wiley Coyote die?….or, Yosemite Sam for that matter…..Never a cut…nor a drop of blood….just an on-going resurrection… time after time after time…..only to sin again

I stand by the yellow line…..waiting just waiting ……

Maybe today’s not your day…

It is not Holden Caufield….nor Jim Carroll’s antics in Manhattan streets that I seek

It is not Mailer’s American Dream…..or Miller’s dancing through Brooklyn’s banality…. brothels….burlesque….I want……Keep dancing Henry….keep dancing…..

No…for it is Max….my hero Max….who now sits at The Royal Rumpus….Who knows love….who knows joy….and has suffered as well….

Next month I shall escape Manhattan and journey into the wild to find my own Royal Rumpus…Amongst the wild….the loving….

I shall……I shall…..

Television turned-up… loud….loud….loud….Drunks…. junkies…. K2 casualties snore with heads upon folded arms…..ankles swollen…the norm does not fit….

Soon the machismo and bravado will begin, Man fuck you man….You better be showin’ some respect motherfucker, and so-on…..and so-on…..and so-on….

Blowin’ in the bathrooms…..hand jobs under stairwells…..a fuck for the right price….It’s still dark-out….No-one can see….drop ’em baby…

And some begin by being industrious with hand-made signs asking for donations….Give to a Homeless Vet…..a homeless Pregnant woman….a homeless 21 year old born on this day whose lost everything…..including an ID saying I’m 21 today……

The art of the hustle begins again..  all has been seen before… Sincerity is seldom seen….

Of course not….it’s America….

America is alive and well….hoodwinking all…..the thugs…the down-n-outs…the pushers…the users…the abusers…the 3 in the morning get in line day laborer….

Trump must be smart….he’s rich….dreams of turning their fortunes inside/out….Dreams…..dreams…..dreams…brother give me another toke …..

Wealth within reach, that’s always the thought…..reach-out and grab it….steal it…borrow it…..Don’t ever give it back……The never ending anthem…..Mees  and Mine…..

America is alive and well….yet, no folding chairs at the tables are left…..Cop a squat….

The school bus carried them throughout the city….To church basements….synagogues….refuge for those without……Or, have lost along the way….

Loud…loud….loud….hip-hop beats bang off of mid-slid windows while cars….people of importance lined behind honk….and honk….and honk…honk…Enough already….

Voices yellin’ and tellin’ yesterday’s….last week’s…..last year’s….250 year old stories of victimization…..The  white man’s still the devil….Don’t you forget it …

But no salvation is sought….nothing to be fed to the soul…..just paper plates piled-high with lo- mein, cold-cuts, pasta salads, and an array of hot -n-cold cereals…..Dig in boys ..

The days are long and these nights of slumber…..too quick….

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….