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This is not fit for the son of God….nor Mohammed….or, Vishnu……it is unholy….too much of too much….in the words of Hyman Roth, “smaller piece…”

I bend….I cross myself in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…..and begin to pray for peace within…peace within…..no more internal struggle… done with the fighting…..the mad yelling….the curses upon enemies…..exes…..pasts….and present troubles…..troubles….troubles……we’ve all been there…..

And cameras are pointed at a golden alter with a crucifix shining…..does pain or suffering shine?….. who knows…again with the selfies….the extended arms to record one whispering, “John John’s mass was celebrated here… So was his mother’s….,” as silent readings on humility….celebration….hurt….and forgiveness are lifted to the heavens…….a prayer for me….a prayer for all….

Across the street Atlas shrugs…..commerce commences…..and trash is rummaged through for a possible meal…..and I pray at St. Pat’s……I pray at St. Pat’s where it is warm inside…..walls are adorned with art…..fortunes are displayed…..

I shall not pray at St. Patrick’s again……

At 6:00 in the morning the yelling on the short bus started, Hey man…you better go by 88th Street and pick up those guys over there ’cause you forgot ’bout them the other day and man was they pissed at you, loudly the PR pointed out the bus driver’s mistake as whoops and hollers from America’s forgotten rang out over Salsa music….A.M. talk radio…..hip-hop rapping sagging might be haggling brothers arguing over what be dope and nope……you dig…….

Gotta get this schedule down man, He continued with an accent straight off of Hunts Point, The deal is you wait for us…..not the other way around man, and that’s right followed by damn straight and you better listen motherfucker by all on the bus as traffic tightened on Madison and greens turned to reds and ambulances went wrong ways down one ways and cops block off 6th, 7th, and 8th…..

I’ll get you get you there when I get you there, the Mick says under his breath…..I’m the driver…..let me do my job you bunch of…..

Oooooooooooo…..I know you didn’t just say that word, again, the PR antagonizes,….you better watch what you say or this whole bus will blow up I’m telling you pops, silence for a second or two…..

What did that motherfucker say, the black kid with the Knicks hat tilted to the right demanded, tell me what that mother fuckin’ old white man be sayin’, the kid persisted, I be breakin’ that motherfucker’s legs you watch…..

And the short bus comes to a stop. Right in the middle of 1st Avenue as the sun rises over the East River and the United Nations flags blew with a dramatic rippled effect, leaving all aboard to a dead silence…..

The door opened and the Mick with his plaid mac stood at the front with sturdy legs and a shaky voice, You’re on your own, he bowed and walked down the stairs to hit the street without a shout or a yell nor a word stated at all…..

And that was that……..

 

 

She sat naked behind plated glass….phone in hand….making forecasts and promises……she pretended…..I pretended….

Couldn’t resist…… a vagabond…..where was Mecca….?……..  not in Chicago…..nor Cleveland….. D.C…… St. Louis….. never found until the red screen rose at 42nd and 8th….revealing what……revealing her…..just like a hundred other times….

Feeling like Harry Dean Stanton in Paris, Texas, “I knew these people…..these two people….” she did all the talking……  wanted to….but couldn’t…..gun shy? I suppose…..just listening…. listening…… didn’t want to see…..

“Everything became an adventure,” that was the line from the movie, “an adventure…..” maybe it had become an adventure…..the on-going search for a redhead with blue eyes….with innocence….with faith….these are dreams……

It was not her body of loose flesh…nor the Southern drawl of a sweet bourbon voice…..wasn’t the breathless pauses between words….suggestions…. solicitations….can’t say……just magic…..maybe mystic….who knows…..

No….all it was… for a brief moment… was just the comfort of not being alone….

I’m half Native American, said the blonde…..blue eyed…..mutton chop wearing youngster, and….I am also half Irish, he continued…..which is really strange if you think about it due to the fables….misnomers…..stereotypes….. about the two races, he pulled out a bag of organic carrots…….and….he pulled off his sweater…..

On one half alcohol is terrible for me…it ruined the whole Native race….it’s culture….it’s toxic to us, he munched loudly, bit off another bite, and the Irish are no friends to the devil juice either, louder he got, talking more and more at a rapid rate of speed while taking off his woolen pants…….

But…what’s my point……I deal with high percentages in my mathematical estimates…..always on point with predictions…..prognosis…..it’s not my fault if no-one cares to listen to my advice on astrophysics…..metaphysics…. the spiritual wholeness of the individual and how that can turn into a healing process for an entire nation, paused, adjusted his pork-pie hat, and again munched on more hairy orange organic carrots; shivering in socks and underwear……

No one in my family will talk to me…they think I’m crazy, a chuckle, if I were crazy….truly crazy…..would I be as smart as I am? I think not…..but….. then again…..maybe….Throughout history smart and crazy have coincide……together…..as one….so….I was wrong….I’m both crazy and smart….however…..I’m due for a change….perhaps it is time to just be…….

I now stand before you naked, he grinned as if all pain was taken away, I am at ease with myself….my naked…..smart…..crazy……self……of course I am…..of course I am….

 

 

 

Outside the deli in Brooklyn the line stretched for blocks…. maybe a mile….. . Jews….. Puerto Ricans….. Mexicans….. Dominicans….. Dagos…..blacks…..white suburban house wives texting and taking selfies to mark the auspicious event….. Micks….. Greek diner owners….. and Indian cabbies talking over all of ’em as if they were at a stand on Shouting Street selling samosas and dates……. Middle Easterners looking to strike it rich with the purchase of ten…. twenty…. thirty tickets at a time; all chatting it up for the cameras…. all wanting a piece of the action….all wanting the American dream……. to be rich with as little effort as possible; hang in there…..dreams do come true……

I want a big ninety inch motherfucker, the black youth with headphones lowered around his neck said to the Eyewitness News Team, and some speakers and shit, he continued, a bleep here and a bleep there, cause you knows….this is my one shot at making it in this place… it be tough out here for the brothers…..

I just want to take some vacations and give my kids some money, said the nice Jewish grandmother from across the bay, of course I want to save some of it too….. you never know when times are going to get hard…….

Just wanna buy drinks for all my friends….every single night of the week, the greaseball spewed…and here’s a shout out to Mikey D in The Bronx…..Petey Boy…..Tony….Tony…and Tony….you know who you are….woo woo wooooooo

Did you buy your ticket sir? I told the reporter/model that no…. I had not…..nor did I intend to….

You know you  can’t win if you don’t play, the leggy blonde quipped…..

Right…..If I won that thing……I’d be dead within a week….Let’s just say I’m alright with what I have……

 

 

Hip-hop beats….black youth rapping about some cellphone romance…egg foo young with a sauce; where’s the gravy? it’s egg foo fucking young ;don’t make it something it’s not….

All this Chinese yelling over god knows, god doesn’t care; a tribesman can’t decide between lo chow mein, or Singapore Sling……more yelling from the kitchen….

You get no pot o tea….you get cup, number one son says, you want or no….

Just the check……. the fortune cookie read, “some pursue happiness; you create it.”

Oh fuck me….

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He sat sleeping in a hard wooden chair across the table….warned of falling into dreams….a library is no place for slumber…

A large window on the second floor showed a good portion of the Schwratzman Library across 5th Avenue….old ghosts had dwelled within it’s aisles for years… new spirits need not apply….

Now….here in this moment….souls go unnoticed….the wanderers of  dear old Gotham…..haunted by literary pasts….an illiterate present….and this young kid sleeps…..cellphone charging…..arms folded within……he is the new American ghost……

Seen sleeping away Indian Summer’s season in Madison Square Park, or sometimes Bryant……. lying horizontally on the six or seven trains in dark hours as cops walk by, pedestrians hold noses, and white guilt kids look for other options…..surely he had no home…no family…..

Are we reaching the end yet? I sure hope so…..

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It is not being afraid to cry out in a library, a park bench, a church pew…..
With songs playing, notes hit, chords struck….setting off feelings from long ago….. ten years ago…..ten days ago…. the last few seconds…..allowing all that is human to be seen…..

In being alone there is solace, a tranquility never experienced by the king….the queen….nor their court….to one’s self be true whatever the cost….it is bound to be beautiful….rich…..plentiful….Take it all in…..these streets where lost souls pray upon those considered weak….these homes where brothers are not protectors….. churches, churches, churches……wanting money well spent, a down payment for a soul if you will…..

I see the thousand dollar suits, the coiffed hairdos, the smartphone manifestos spewed out on dating websites for those seeking connections without costs, without suffering; all gratis…..it’s the here and now….batteries not included….

And so I sit in a library listening to Central Park West played by Coltrane….and I am crying……this is what it means to have joy……

Let the tears roll….let the crying commence….let peace reign for a thousand years….what is the cost….

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We sat next to one another at the shrink’s office; the old codger was sneezing his grey head off; a bless you was granted each and every time…..

At home, the prune said, I sneeze once and my wife says bless you, a smile exposing a blank mouth….

That a fact, I said, what’d you know? I smiled too; a few more years and my chompers will be gone as well…..

But….she says….to never bless more than once, again with the grin, it’s all how’s you’s was brought up, a wink, a pat on the knee; my knee.

You know, he pointed up at a light, instead of saying bless you…..the Japanese bow….they bow…..uh….right….

They also lost the war, I reminded him. They lost the war…..that’s what bowing’ll getcha….

We both nodded and went back to talking to ourselves out loud……no one said a word.

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He stood over me, looking at bottles of pills; Seroquel, Trazodone, Depakote, lined up on the Mickey D’s table next to the dollar joe  with Taylor Dayne belting out I just want to be your lover girl over the speakers; loud, loud, loud; the volume is never high enough amongst the poor…..

Man, one grey eye wandered, where you get all dem pills? Uninvited, drunk as a WASP on St. Patrick’s Day, he sat down…..sang along with Ms. Dayne….

Whatcha got man? Let me see dem bottles Hoss, Taylor Dayne turns into Barry White…..Playin’ a game girl….playin’ a game…..

The bottle of Trazodone was snatched by the black beggar, Man…..whatcha got?

Bipolar 1 with PTSD….

Damn….dats some shit….you get paid for dat shit?

Answered yes….

Man I gotta get me some ah dat Bipolar shit…..you hook me up man? dats gots to be da shit…..how much you bein’ paid?

Not much….

It be better dan nuthin nigga….shit….who you foolin’……Bipolar…dat be da shit….how can I get dat? Whats I gots ta do…..

I think you’re doing it….

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