Always and Forever

You don’t have to worry when I am at your side,

Encircling my arms around you—feeling safe inside.

I’m just feeling thankful for a heavenly sign

Holding you forever until the end of time

When you feel exhausted or burned out at both ends,

I’ll give you a backrub, touch you with my hands.

I don’t profess a power or think I can heal you;

I’ll just try my best to keep on loving you.

In the morning as you stretch out on the bed,

I refrain from speaking or wishing I were dead;

Lord can’t always give us all the time we need.

Sometimes I may miss you, but you are all I need.

            Always and forever

Andy

Valerie Solanis, the founder of The Society for Cutting Up Men, walks in to The Factory and takes the elevator up to the fourth floor.  She wants Andy to produce a script she has written, but Andy has said, “I’m not interested.”  It is a long way up to the fourth floor of The Factory; she has plenty of time to load her gun.

The Factory, as usual, is full of people, even Lou Reed and Billy Name are there.  Andy is on the telephone, talking to Ondine.  Valerie Solanis takes three steps away from the elevator and waves her gun while pointing at the floor.

She says, “Andy, you cannot control me anymore.”

            __________

At the hospital, his pulse is gone.  The bullet has split his spleen and lung.  The doctors take blood from his hand–they have run out of tracks.  They work to bring him back and color a big scar in his pale side.

In the hospital, he learns needlepoint from his brother, the priest.  Ingrid Superstar has taught the priest how to do needlepoint in the lobby because Andy won’t let her up to the room.  He is afraid that she might steal his pills.

When it is all over, Andy puts his scar in an advertisement for his production of Frankenstein.  He can never let things go to waste.

            __________

Andy is about twenty.  He is living in New York and trying to get a job to pay his share of the rent.  He is living with seventeen other people in the basement of a building at 103rd Street and Manhattan Avenue.  The rent is cheap, the apartment is furnished with cockroaches, and he needs the company of the people there.

In Carmel Snow’s office at Harper’s Bazaar, Andy unzips his portfolio.  A roach crawls out and down the leg of the table.  Andy stands humiliated but Carmel Snow gives him the job.

            __________

The smack is in his veins: soul-searching in 1966 to remember Saint Vitus Dance.

When Andy was a young boy, he would begin his summers with a nervous breakdown.  He had three of them by the time he was eleven.  Recovering, Andy would lie in bed listening to the radio with his Charlie McCarthy doll and make cut-out paper dolls that would never get cut out.  He would make plenty of these dolls so that he could put some underneath his pillow.

His Czechoslovakian mother would read Dick Tracy in her thick accent and Andy would always say, “Thanks, Mom,” when she was done even if he hadn’t understood a word.  Every time he finished a page of his coloring book, she would reward him with a Hershey’s Bar.

She used to say, “The way to make friends, Andy, is to invite them up for tea.”

            ___________

It is October, 1971.  Andy is standing on the street in Paris while an old, English lady stares at him.  When he looks away, she approaches him.

“Aren’t you Andy?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You came to my house in Provincetown twenty-eight and half years ago.  You were wearing a sunhat.  You don’t even remember me, but I’ll never forget you in that sunhat.  You see, you couldn’t take any sun.”

Her husband is there.  He says, “No no no.  We weren’t married yet, remember?  So it must have been twenty-six and three-quarter years ago.”

Andy walks away quickly. He is eager to live moment to moment.

            __________

Andy enters the neighborhood numbers-racket newspaper greeting card store when all the other shops are closed.  He buys Harper’s Bazaar and asks for a receipt.  It is very late and the newsboy is very irritable.  He yells at Andy, and then writes the receipt on plain white paper.

Andy says, “List the magazines, please.  And put the date: July fifteenth, nineteen-seventy-three.  And write the name of the store at the top.”

The newsboy stares at Andy for a minute.  He asks, very quietly and bewildered, “Why?”

Andy screams loudly, “The reason for doing it is that I want you to know that I am an HONEST CITIZEN, and I SAVE MY STUBS, and I PAY MY TAXES.”

            __________

In 1964, Andy makes an Art joke at his April-May Stable Gallery show.  An installation exhibit, his show comprises 300 boxes, silk-screened with the names and logos of Del Monte, Campbell’s, Kellogg’s, Mott’s, and Brillo, in a display of Supermarket Warehouse-dom.  Some are stacked from floor to ceiling; some are on the window sill.  Most are where Andy dropped them.

The butt of the joke is the happenings and installation exhibitions of various pseudo-prestigious galleries by a group of artists including Jim Dine and Claes Oldenburg.  Ted Carey, who accompanied Andy to Oldenburg’s Store, says at the Stable Gallery show, “[the Store] was so overwhelming and so fabulous that Andy was so depressed.  He said, ‘I’m so depressed.'”  Andy makes an Art joke.

__________

1952.  Andy Warhol is wandering around the galleries of New York, reading short stories by Truman Capote, his hero.  There was a time when Andy slept at Capote’s front door.  While sitting on the green at Central Park, Andy gets an idea.  By the end of the year, Andy Warhol exhibits a series of drawings illustrating Capote’s stories at the Hugo Gallery and eats chocolate with Capote at parties.

After describing an apparently random series of people, Truman asks, “Now, Andy, you tell me what you think these people have in common.”

Andy attempts, “They committed suicide . . . ?”

Condescendingly, Capote instructs, “Now, use your mind.”

            __________

Sitting at the ice cream shop a block from St.Patrick’s, Andy and Lou and the rest of the entourage share coffee, cigarettes, and really big chocolate sundaes: Andy’s weakness.  Delmore comes in through the out-door, drunk.  He starts jabbering about how Lou should call the White House to tell them that he is aware of the plot.

The pimple-faced nobody behind the counter says, “Look at that goddamn drunk; I better call the cops.”  Because Andy is paying the bill, he gently takes the young man’s hand from the telephone receiver and slaps his own face with it.  Andy throws down money and takes Delmore outside while Pimple-face gapes.

            __________

It is snowing outside the car.  Andy, Sylvia, and Lou are taking a cab uptown.  Lou says to the driver: “Can you slow down, please.”

Andy is being evil tonight.  He turns to Lou and, in a fey and whiny voice, says, “You wouldn’t have said that a few years ago.”

Lou never speaks to him again.

            __________

Andy is out of the hospital again.  The gall bladder operation has left him weak and drained, but John Cale comes by between AA meetings to exercise with him.  It is 1987.

Today, Andy wakes up with blood on the linen sheets; the scars in his side are bleeding.  And the corset he wears to keep his insides in hurts.  John isn’t here yet, but Andy does three sets of fifteen pushups and four sets of ten situps.  Blood appears on his shirt.

“The doctors said I was dead,” Andy scrawls into his journal.  He lies down to dream about dying.

            __________

At Andy’s funeral Mass, held in St.Patrick’s, Lou wonders aloud to Sylvia.  “I expected Andy to be here surrounded by his latest entourage. Chocolates were his weakness.”

References

Garrels, Gary ed. Discussions in Contemporary Culture: The Work of Andy Warhol.  Number 3.  Dia Art Foundation & Bay Press.  Seattle: 1989.

Koch, Stephen. Stargazer.  Praeger Publishers.  New York: 1973.

Reed, Lou and John Cale. Songs for ‘Drella. (Sire 1990) 9 26140-2

Reed, Lou. Between Thought and Expression (Selected Lyrics of Lou Reed). Hyperion. New York: 1991.

Warhol, Andy.  The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again.  Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.  New York: 1975.

Angela’s Last Drag

The last long, cool tendrils from my cigarette wafted about my body as I heard a roar from across campus.  I had been ambling slowly towards my dorm.  This roar of a lioness that is at game with her cubs came from across a darkened stretch of path; it was a low, rumbling sound.  I stared across the distance of the night to the target: a singular Teresa laughing the hearty laughter of contentment for which she is known.  It was a fitting tribute to a very long day.

“Do you want a smoke ?” she asked in a voice at once inviting and sincere.

“Sure,” I replied and waited for the sacrifice to be placed betwixt my lips.

Oh, Angela.

Fire lighting once–match burns out.

Fire lighting twice–burning the sacrifice.

(This is just like marshmallows on a campfire singing Scouting songs.)

We walked up to her room, Angela’s room, talking loudly and saying nothing.  Drag, babble, catch each other’s eye, linger, drag, walk on.  There were too many double ententes–too many chance discoveries–between us.  I proposed to walk her to her door as opposed to my going straight home.  She succumbed: no discussion.  A sinister pleasure overcame us as we neared her nothing-on-my-walls.  As we hugged departure, a passion of serenity–of heart-place–entered us both.  One last drag in each other’s company was seen.

I turned and walked away, and, now, there’s no looking back.  To catch each other’s eye a final time.  No, that would be too much.  That would be a wedding of sensation, a consummation of another type of love.  Better to leave well enough alone.  My cigarette butt is burning out, and it’s much too late.

Bellybuttons

You can’t gulp hot coffee w/out burning your tongue

No matter what your therapist tells you.

You are going to gulp it

Because you don’t remember how to use a straw

            Without blowing bubbles.

And because it takes too long for things to

            Cool off.

“You may not be here tomorrow,”

            Says your Janis Joplin/Queen/Mother-head.

So you go ahead and burn your pink tongue with

The coffee in the Far-side mug

That is gripped by nicotine-stained tendrils

That know no fear of burns or stains

            Or therapists.

And you want to scream from the pain

But the liquid floods your throat like lye.

“It serves you right,”

            Says your Shakespeare/Emperor/Fat(her)-head.

So you spit hot coffee in their bellybuttons

As you scream an exorcist-movie-house scream

And drop the Far-side mug onto the floor

And watch it shatter into

            Ten thousand fragments.

black coffee and squeeze

awakened by the whistling

teardrops as they fell

down your nose and

past my ear

alarmed,

what’s wrong, dear?

“Ricky is such a shithead

to Lucy sometimes.”

so, i got up

made black coffee

brought it to the bed

and we made love

by the light of the

slippery television

Brother Vinny and Squeaky Suzy

It came down to the very last bullet.

Brother Vinny had hit the floor.

I’d been dead for twenty whole minutes

When the big motherfucker came back for more.

            I’d rather be watching Hogan’s Heroes

            Than thinking up this stupid crap.

Squeaky Suzy was a real good looker

When she walked the boulevard.

But Suzy sang “The Great Pretender”

‘Cause Suzy was Sam the Fireman!

Suzy was Sam the Fireman—

Lighting fires the best that she can.

Suzy was Sam the Fireman.

Vinny killed Sam with gun in hand.

Suzy came in the open door,

And that’s when Vinny hit the floor.

            I’d rather be watching Hogan’s Heroes

            Than thinking up this stupid crap.

Verse: E E7/G x4

Chorus: B7 A7 F#7 C7 B7

Bubba

Bubba thought that the best part of a woman’s body was her butt. He used to sit atop the monkey bars, look at girls, and say, “I’d slap that big old spongy butt with my hands, squeeze it like Charmin, and say ‘Come to Papa, girl; you’re ripe!'” 

Bubba wasn’t much to look at; he was far too fat and far too short for fourteen. Girls kept their distance. But old Bubba used to boast how he’d had them all. “Shit, I got my dick wet so many times I thought I was a fish.” Then some one would tell him that he felt like a fish because he was all wet.

People made fun of Bubba because he couldn’t shut up. If the teacher heard some noise come out of the back of the class, she’d say, “Hey, Johnny, is that you making such a fuss.” And Johnny, as representative of all the kids who’d been making the ruckus, would put on a straight-faced mask and answer back. “No, Ma’am. My mamma didn’t name me Bubba.” This usually made all the kids in the class wallow in laughter for a spell. If Bubba was there, his head would swell up like a giant pumpkin and turn red as a tomato. They wouldn’t laugh long if he was there.

Personally, I’ve known Bubba since I was a tyke. His Pa and mine worked together at the train yard cleaning out the cars after they came back from up north. When I was a young kid, must have been around four, my old man would drag me down to the train yard so my mother could have a day for herself.

I suppose that I was too much to handle, what with work and all, so Bubba’s Pa brought Bubba to play with. We didn’t really play much at first. He was kind of roly-poly and not too quick, but by the time we started school, we had become pretty close.

Bubba was always full of allergies. He could never breathe through his nose. Because of this, he found it easier to talk a lot, rather than sit there like a fool with his mouth hanging open. Come to think of it, he probably had asthma too.

I remember one time when we were sitting on the monkey bars. Bubba, as usual, was bragging about some girl he knew who lived ‘cross town and none of us were ever going to meet.

“She’s dope! She got these great, big tities and a big old ass. Man, that was some good booty. I think her name was Candy.”

“She’s probably fat,” I said.

“Shut up! What do you know?”

“I know that if she’s got bit fat tities and a big fat ass she’s either Mrs. Harkin or your mamma. Either way, were talking wide load.”

“I’ll beat you upside the head you talk about my mamma like that again.”

“At least I’m not doing the okee-doke with my mamma. Anyway, why don’t you shut up. Always talking trash about you getting play. You ain’t all that. Who you trying to fool?” I could tell he was upset, because he actually shut up. As soon as that question hung unanswered in the air, I felt kind of bad. I shouldn’t tease him like that; he doesn’t need that from me.

After a few minutes of silence, I said to him, “Hey, Bubba, you wanna go snatch some honeysuckle. There some growing out through the fence across the field. See that patch?” It wasn’t much, but fourteen year olds don’t bear grudges too long.

Well, he didn’t answer me right away; instead, he seemed to be studying the fence across the field, must have been about a hundred yards away. Then, without any warning at all, he jumped down to the ground and ran on his porky calves towards the yellow patch. I wasn’t really braced for the vibration that followed his departure from the monkey bars. They shook real hard, and I fell flat on my ass. “You asshole! I’m coming to get you.”

Bubba wasn’t very good at running, and today was no exception. I caught up with him right quick. Tackled him. My breath was knocked out when we hit the ground, so I didn’t realize that Bubba had just split his head open on a rock right away. He was bawling and rolling around when I recovered myself.

He had a bloody gash across his temple that ran down the side of his head to his jaw. It was an ugly wound, but it wasn’t too deep. I remember that my Pa gave me quite a whipping when we got home from the clinic.

Bubba ain’t never talked to me since.

Butterflies Still Sing

Names on the tombstones

Read postcards of

My father’s

Gravel hips

Longing

France for Salvador

Sand in a swimsuit

Scorns clams for

My mother’s

Pink meat

Craving

France for Salvador

Child in an eyelash

Blinks tears for

Butterflies singing

France for Salvador

Children at a London Schoolyard

Do you know what it is to hold

Your pregnant lover’s breast

As her swollen hands beat

Against a windowpane?

Do you know what it is to hold

Your pregnant ex-lover’s hand

As her swollen head bleeds

Into a pillowcase?

Do you know what it is to hold

Your ex-pregnant ex-lover’s head

As her swollen belly bleeds

Into a toilet bowl?

Cold

“I can’t tell you why I do this.”

“Do what?”

“I can’t tell you why I drink myself to oblivion, smoke like a freight train, or cry when the news is on. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me. That’s the reason you are here; isn’t it?”

“You didn’t like it when I spoke about the dream. You made me think about childbirth instead. It’s cold here.”

“Why don’t you close your eyes and tell me again.”

“No. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well. Then. Tell me something new.”

“I am not a specimen.”

“Let me try. Give me a chance. I might surprise you.”

“My father touched me the other day. Don’t look at me that way — he hugged me.”

“He hugged you.”

“Yes. He hugged me in a parking lot. I don’t ever remember feeling that before. He volunteered it. He hugged me. Only rarely did that occur even the other way around. I don’t think he had ever hugged me before.”

“So how did that make you feel?”

“So I cried the next forty minutes after he left the parking lot while I was driving on the highway. I couldn’t stop crying. Driving was hard. I thought I was going to crash.”

“Did you want to crash?”

“No. Those were tears of joy. They came from being so close to that pain too. I don’t know. It hurts so good — something like that. I never knew he cared. Do you know what he told me?”

“No.”

“He said that maybe I was ‘trying too hard.'”

“What do you think he meant by saying that?”

“Nevermind. You don’t care so long as you get paid for listening to me.”

“That’s not true. Tell me how that hug means he cares.”

“No. You wouldn’t understand.”

cook avenue

it was 2 a m on a monday morning

i stood on the bridge over the railroad

tracks that slice the park

near cook avenue in half

singing about being

alone

that’s when i heard the scream

coming from somewhere   someplace

on the other side of the tracks

down by cook avenue where

a girl was murdered

last year

i ran down there in case

somebody needed help

but at 2 a m on a monday morning

while standing on cook avenue

the screams you hear   are probably

your own

days without you

You parted the Nile at my lips,

your hands caressing the small

of my back above my hips.

And though I’ve spent

barefoot afternoons

awaiting your call–

my body, waiting, spent–

the lips you kissed now bloom.

They crave your tender

tongue against my cheek wall

where you burn to cinder

the shortest days of fall

and early winter.

Deep in my Heart

You know I love you,

Darling; yes I do.

You know I’ll be there,

Darling; yes it’s true.

You know I need you

Right here by my side.

When you are with me,

I never need to hide.

            And you are always here,

            Deep in my heart.

            And we are always here,

            Never to part.

            And you are always here,

            Deep in my heart.

            And we are always here,

            Never to part.

The thornless roses

And candles never burn.

The more I know you;

The more I want to learn.

And when I need you,

You come before I call.

The truth is simple:

Love will conquer all.

            And you are always here,

            Deep in my heart.

            And we are always here,

            Never to part.

I love you !

I love you !

I do !

Chords: F#min  Bmin7  \ D  Asus2  F#min   (x6)

F#min  D  / D  A \  Bmin  / Bmin  D  A

A  D  / D  A \  Bmin  / Bmin  D  A

            Solo:     A

                        Bmin  F#  Emin  A   (x3)

                        Bmin  F#  Emin

            A  D  / D  A \  Bmin  / Bmin  D  A (x2)

            F#min  Bmin7  \ D  Asus2  F#min   )  x6

            F#min  D  / D  A \  Bmin  / Bmin  D  A

            A  D  / D  A \  Bmin  / Bmin  D  A

G  D  A (x2)

A  D

digging a hole to china

there’s a man above my head

and he’s digging a hole to china

tall and thin, he’s lost his sight

and he’s digging a hole to china

he’s been blinded by the morning light

there’s a woman in an evening dress

and she’s digging a hole to china

a young boy standing by the picket fence

and he’s digging a hole to china

he’s been blinded by the morning light

digging a hole to china

i’ve been blinded by the morning light

e min add9         c 2nd

e min add9         b min7

Earthbound Blues

I walked into your dressing room late in the evening

The bulbs flickered low like the last embers burning

Your painted face weeps like the rain in September

You’ve burned out your flame to the last dying ember

You’ve got cigarette stains and chipped fingernails

And you’re caught like a sailor whose ship never sails

‘Cause you’re earthbound with your feet on the ground

You’ve got clipped wings and engagement rings

You’ve never even seen a rainbow

Now you’ll have to learn to fly solo

I saw you in a calendar sometime last April

Flesh was a flashing right down to your navel

But most disturbing in this public display

Is that nobody listens to a word that you say

You’ve tried real hard to express your thoughts

But everyone know it’s your body that talks

‘Cause you’re earthbound with your feet on the ground

You’ve got clipped wings and engagement rings

You’ve never even seen a rainbow

Now you’ll have to learn to fly solo

Everybody’s Watching You

Everybody’s watching you,

  Watching you turn

  To the blink of the camera eye.

Everybody’s watching (you)

  Every move you make;

  It’s no wonder that they’re asking you, “Why ?”.

Everybody’s watching you:

  Paranoia strikes.

  Do you want more money to burn ?

Everybody’s watching you.

  Everyone is watching.

  Everybody’s watching . . . you.

Everybody’s watching you

  Watching you turn

Everybody’s watching you

  Lesson you’ve learned

Everybody’s watching you

  Tossin’ a coin

Everybody’s watching you

  Drinking your wine

Nobody wants a part-time believer.

Nobody has applause to deliver

  To you.

Everybody’s watching you

  Turning your back

Everybody’s watching me

  Breaking my back

Everybody’s watching you

  Turning away

Everybody’s watching you

  With nothing to say

Ferraris

when i walk to work

people think i’m a jerk

’cause i spit and i smoke and i laugh

but there’s no beautiful women

in bright red ferraris

with sweet thighs and heavenly calves

the blind man’s a saint

with his teeth bared at fate

and his dog and his god are the same

when there’s a beautiful woman

with a bright red ferrari

there’s a priest full of anger and hate

that’s why all beautiful women

drive hondas and novas

cause’ they know that’s the price that you pay

Freedom Child

All things die and all things change

And we all have the same names

Turn around my falling star

And Take a look at where you are

Girl, you’re my freedom

Freedom baby

Freedom child

Take my hand my lady fair

And lead me to your secret lair

Let me look into your eyes

As we touch the tree of life

Girl, you’re my freedom

Freedom baby

Freedom child

friday night man

i don’t even like the way you talk

fey and nasal and with pocket thumbs

i smoke, you don’t, i run, you walk

i eat red meat and lots of it

but on friday nights we dance

at least until saturday morning comes

and we wakeup side by side by chance

and take a sugar black coffee drug hit

well, you know what they say,

“you shouldn’t serve breakfast in bed

for people who cook there anyway.”

but i know you

               and friday nights fit

and i never wakeup dead

               or examining my head

when saturday morning comes

               eggs and bacon are my treat

From the Pulpit

I’ve heard the sounds of angels

Praying not to fall from heaven above.

The Earth God made isn’t for virgins;

It’s for those who truly love.

There’s no Jesus in my heart;

No Jesus in my head.

Can’t you see that my blood is red?

I am not a winner or a sinner or a saint.

It’s just that I don’t believe in hate

From the pulpit.

There’s no symmetry in bigotry;

No bloody glove in a fist.

The vengeance of God has no greater fury

Against those who subscribe to a shit list.

Hippopotamús

I first saw him on Rue St. Catherine while walking with my mother.  He was a large man, with a stomach that appeared heavy from many nights of drinking. However, he ambled down the street as if looking for his next meal — stalking.  He wore his hair and his beard as they fell.  Long, to the shoulder, dirty, and golden, they formed a great lion’s mane framing a craggy, French face.  He might have been thirty or sixty.  He looked like Santa Claus in a filthy, yellowed t-shirt and jeans.

When I first saw him, he was standing across the street from The Royal Bank of Montreal. Its facade grandiose, with two-foot wide, two-inch deep Doric columns carved into the concrete wall surrounding its revolving doors and guarding its lush interior.  Spray painted French graffiti ridiculed the side of the building: “Hey, man.  Can you lend me three mil?”

He was haggard and hewn as if from granite — an amber, brimstone devil watching angels feast.  He stood there and stared at the bank and, I thought then, at me for the entire time it took for my mother and I to traverse the block.

Soon, the yellow devil was swaying unsteadily as he began to walk slowly westward on St. Catherine.  I kept pace with him on the parallel side and clasped my mother’s hand tighter. As we were returning to our hotel after many hours shopping, she took no special notice of my insistent pull.

There was at once a howling and a bellow. I looked across the traffic of the street to find him screaming, his voice echoing from the brick and glassy steel faces of the buildings and resounding to the open sky.  Unfortunately, my French has never been good enough to decipher even a simple menu, never mind a ranting drunk who seemed to have lost his mind.

People like my mother did not like cities or their riff-raff; so we, like everyone else in view, walked on after a few second’s gape.  As she now pulled me along, I managed to translate one single word from the still-screaming, yellow drunkard.  I rolled it off of my tongue in French savoring the syllables, “Hippopotamús.”

hunger

maybe she likes me just a little

when i stop by her apartment

or maybe when i telephone

her voice is getting softer

and if i bum a cigarette

might she give me a light?

maybe when i leave

she’ll shake my hand goodnight

maybe she’ll just shake her head

and eat my hand instead

I Come To You

i come to you, defenses down

i come to you with my two feet on the ground

it’s about time that i came clean

it’s about time that i show you what i mean

i come to you

i come to you with my heart in my hands

used to wear it on my sleeve like a chip or a badge

it’s about time that i dig in the dirt

and swallow my pride when i choke on my hurt

i come to you

if my voice shakes and my tongue is tied,

i’ll drop to my knees and swallow that pride

if my throat burns from the bile we spit

i’ll take a lesson from the way that we fit,

i come to you, defenses down

i come to you with my humility found

i come to you with my eyes unafraid

of the truth and the love and the choice that we make

i come to you and my mind is made

to come to you

i come to you

receive me

I Could Be King

“Where’s your God?”, he said to me,

With a beard down to his knee–

Spectacles and crumbling walls

In red-rimmed apology.

Where’s your maker? What’s your cause?

What’s your family tree?

A heritage of violence

Is what you gave to me.

No future; no past. My innocence is gone at last.

All I know is here and now

Love and suffering

Make no plans and make no vow

Here I could be king

No standard; no war. My nation is no more.

Where’s your God?  Is He in your head?

Is He your soul disease?

In your closet? In your bed?

In your seven seas?

Where’s Siddharta; is He bright

Beneath a Chinese star?

A homeless man gave up his fight

To watch “The Winds Of War.”

He’s dying; He’s dead. He’s crying; He’s free.

All I know is here and now

Love and suffering

Make no plans and make no vow

Here I could be king

I’ll Follow You

I sit in the dark, and I look out the window

As the rain-splattered heart keeps beating through silence.

The sound is created for me.

I look to your eyes and hear as they whisper.

Pass over dark skies; the Kestrel flies higher.

The sound is created for me.

Take to the skies as the night turns to morning;

See through your eyes as they scream out to me:

“I am free!”

Free to run faster than ever before.

Avoid the disaster and live evermore:

You always ran faster than me.

            Can you see?

            Are you free?

            Be with me.

Live for the living and live for today;

Keep your heart singing and go your own way–

I’ll follow you.

            I’ll follow you; I’ll follow you.

            I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.

            I’ll follow you; I’ll follow you.

            I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.

            I will follow you.

I’ve Lost my Faith in Lust

I blame this on the Bossa Nova

            And the stuttering of Christ.

That woman had a brand new lover

            Who once met her at the waist.

But he was made a Southern Baptist boy,

            And she was a Methodist.

Their kid—he was drowned in sweet perfumes

            To be baptized like his father.

But there are no Holy Ghost Balloons

            And no forever after.

For a kid with mixed-up, dancing fools,

            There’s only so much out there.

Jesse’s Way

Well, here’s a little story ’bout a man who fought for glory:

Shootin’ up his six-gun when the Sheriff wasn’t ’round.

Now, Jesse wasn’t bad; he just thought that he’d been had.

In a fit of fury, he challenged men to die.

Jesse’s going to kill a man today.

Jesse’s going to kill a man anyway that he can.

He’s going to make him pay the price of his own advice.

He’s going to die . . . Jesse’s way.

Well, here’s a little tale of a soul that’s set to sale.

Devil bought a lover; what he wanted was a friend.

Twelve o’clock on the steeple clock — Jesse was awaiting,

Listening to the countdown of a faded memory.

Jesse’s going to kill a man today.

Jesse’s going to kill a man anyway that he can.

He’s going to make him pay the price of his own advice.

He’s going to die . . . Jesse’s way.

Jesse wasn’t waiting to hear the teardrops fall.

He took his gun in hand and ended it all.

Jesse went and killed a man today.

Jesse went and killed a man anyway that he could.

He tried to make him pay the price of his advice.

Jesse went and died . . . Jesse’s way.

Julian

Julian sat by the picture window and looked out at the sea. The tide was coming in over the breakers and the beach. He wondered if the sand ever moved and if the Sandman himself lived on the beach.

“Come on, Julian. It’s time to go,” said a tired voice from somewhere else in the house. Julian got down from the window sill, tied his laces, and grabbed his aunt’s awaiting hand out in the hall.

At the funeral, Julian did not cry. Holding his aunt’s hand with the small fingers of his left hand, he simply stood by the two large gleaming coffins that sparkled like waxy limousines. In his right hand, he held a single rose of bitter crimson gingerly — trying to avoid the thorns.

“Aunt Ivy?”

“Yes, Julian?” She used that hushed tone that adults use when a priest is near.

“Are they in Heaven?”

Aunt Ivy tightened her grip on the tiny hand and whispered, “There is no Heaven.” She clamped her mouth shut after that — her jaw quivered like a wounded fawn.

Julian did not say anything; instead, he let go of her hand and held the thorny rose, pricking his thumb by mistake. When the rose-tossing took place, Julian threw his roses overhand into the deep, dank burrow. Aunt Ivy pulled him gently to the car. As they drove away, Julian stared at nothing out the window and sucked his thumb.

Julie Beamed

“It isn’t such a bad coat, really. It could use a dry-clean, though,” she mused while looking over the old navy pea coat she had salvaged from the attic. It had belonged to her husband when he was in the war.

Julie bounced into the kitchen and saw the moldy purple mass. “What’s that, Mom?”

June looked at her daughter, sized her up. “It’s going to be your new winter coat.  In a few months it will be cold enough.  It’s high time we . . . .” She paused and took a breath, “I mean I — got you a new one. What with all the holes and wear in your old one already and you a grown woman this year.”

Pleased by the compliment but fearful of the musty stench coming from the coat, Julie replied, “Well, okay, Mom, but why does it have to be that dirty old thing.  It smells like somebody died wearing that.” She thought it looked like a bruise.

June winced at the mention of death. She put the coat down in a corner and turned her face from her daughter. Bitterly, she answered, “Because I haven’t got money for more than just the cleaning this coat needs.  Besides, it’s a good coat with no holes.” She turned quickly towards Julie and said, “Nevermind, go tell your brothers to wash up for dinner.”

Julie thought that those eyes were going to burn right through her head, even as she turned to find her brothers. She bit her lip whenever her mother talked about money.  Ever since her father had died in an accident at the steel refinery, belts had been drawn tight at the Fenstermacher household.  As Julie made her way to the garage where David and Stanley were working on Dad’s old Chevy, she wondered when the insurance money would run out.  “Dad would have hated this,” she thought.

The Fenstermachers were the latest in a long line of proud German farmers and steel workers.  With Lukas Fenstermacher’s ill fortune, neither of his twin sons would be able to afford college—the long-awaited salvation for the family.  Lukas had made a habit of announcing: “The state may be helping me, but they’ll soon be the first Fenstermachers to go.”

Unfortunately, David and Stanley’s hopes were dashed mere weeks after they both received acceptances to Pitt.  Lukas was killed when the brakes of one of the refinery’s trucks failed.  He was welding a pipe joint shut when the grill of the truck neared him. Unable to move fast enough with all of the welding gear on, he was crushed against a factory wall.

Julie thought that the worst thing about her father’s death was the fact that everyone in her family had lost hope. Sure, David and Stanley were working now, but they were never going to get very far without a college degree. It was like her father planted a tree that was cut down before it went to seed. “Hey guys,” she said to the twins staring at the lifeless husk that was Dad’s old Nova, “it’s time for dinner.”

The next day, Julie was poking about in the trash that littered the attic floor. There were scraps of old clothes, boxes and boxes of toys, and an old chest in the corner all sitting in an inch of dust. Some of the boxes had been sealed for years. The dank, stale air was clausterphobic. Julie hadn’t been up here since she had played hide-and-seek with her brothers as a kid.

Julie found some old pictures of her and her dad strewn about the floor. Among them, she found one where she was playing in the driveway on her Big Wheel. She used to circle around and drive doughnuts around her older brothers’ bicycles.  Her father stood near a tree in the yard behind her. He was a short, fat, little man with a beer in his hand. His pants seemed to be perpetually sliding off and his belly popped out underneath his shirt.

As she sat in the attic looking at the picture, she came to realize what it was about him that made her so distrustful when he was alive. She couldn’t remember touching him. There were a few times when she hugged him, but she had never felt like she was the typical Daddy’s Little Girl. “I suppose it was the hours,” she thought. But that didn’t satisfy her. She remembered how tired he would be after a long day at the mill, but he always seemed to find time for the newspaper. Quietly, she took the picture and went downstairs.

A few days later, June unveiled a beautiful blue wool coat with shinny brass buttons and a clean, velvet sheen fresh from the cleaners. She took it to Julie who sat by the piano in the living room.

“This was the coat from the attic?” Julie asked incredulously.

“That’s right; I got it cleaned for you.”

“Wow, it looks wonderful! And it’s mine?”

“Yes. Put it on and show us how it fits.”

“I have to go out, but I’ll wear it tonight.”

As Julie readied herself to pick up her date, she modeled the coat in the front hall — even the twins approved.  She was on her way out the door when her mother popped her head out of the kitchen and said, “There’s my little girl.  Now all grown up and wearing her father’s jacket.”

Julie beamed.

Lullaby After Dark

A dog howls at the moon

And the Earth begins to sigh.

Lovers learn to swoon

When they catch each other’s eye.

The dreamers of July

Long to see the falling snow.

With this lullaby,

Make sure the dreamers know.

Grass between you toes

When you’re barefoot in the park,

Where go all your woes

After dark ?

missing rib

what about that first cigarette

the one that made you high

what about the instant coffee

that you gulp

what about the commuter train

running in your backyard

what about the hardwood floors

that match your furniture

what about that side of your bed

the empty side

moving van

in my dream, i see you

kiss another man while i

jump from the path

of a moving van

and onto a boxcar.

i never took you with me

to ride the railroad cars

that didn’t fit you,

and that suits you fine.

so make love to your new man

on the side of the road;

forget the romance.

i’ll just drive this moving van.

Murderous

I’m dead ‘cause you don’t come ‘round here no more.

I’m dead ‘cause you don’t seem to care no more about me.

And you don’t care

‘Cause you can’t care

You haven’t got any room in there

For me.

I’m dead. My tombstone is the song I sing.

I’m dead. My coffin is that ruby ring you wear.

I know that once in a while

Once in a great bug while

You give a fuck

You’ll turn those lies into promises,

Hope into rainbows

With any luck.

But what you forgot is the dead are just lucky they’ve died.

But what you forgot is the dead are just lucky they’ve died.

I’m dead, or at least  I wish I was.

I’m dead, but you can call my love Murderous.

My Father’s Music

I don’t listen to the radio much anymore.  If I do, I like to tune it to one of those jazz stations at the far end of the dial.  They always play my father’s music: Oscar Peterson, Joe Pass, Dizzy, Bird, Miles, and Monk.  But on rare occasions, when the crickets in the field make love to the rumble of the railroad tracks, you can hear Billie Holiday singing the blues.

She has always been special to me partly because I grew up listening to Sarah Vaughn, my father’s favorite singer, whom I hate.  Dad and I would sit in the living room and listen to recordings of his old 78s, and every once in a while, he would let me pick what I wanted to hear.  Consequently, I developed an affinity for Billie’s music as a sort of weak rebellion.

Then I got older and Sarah Vaughn died.  She was buried pretty close to our home town so I was surprised when my father didn’t attend the funeral.  He spent that day listening to Sarah’s recordings from the 1940s.  I guess that it’s difficult to lose a contemporary: especially when you fell in love with her once.

“God bless the child that’s got his own.”  That’s why I had to move away from home, learn to cook, and go to work.  But on Sunday afternoons, when the train roars by on the other side of my apartment building’s parking lot, I wish Dad were here trying to change the record.

my heart is cross

i sport no cross on my

forehead  this day

instead, i wear

a bangle on my wrist

from a former lover

this is my religion

My Mother Told Me

my mother told me there’d be days like this:

sweet as december snow.

i make the bed for the one i miss,

put on my clothes, and go.

outside the door, i’m smacked by the rain

like a child who’s lost his toy

and when i stumble into work today,

i’ll light a candle for my love.

My Ramshackle Darling

Sometimes I wonder if you remember

The passion we once shared.

Sky burst asunder. The rose is the thunder.

I wish you’d known I cared.

Do you remember? How could you forget?

Must I surrender the love that I’ve kept

for you?

For you, my ramshackle darling,

I’ll love you ‘til I die.

Once in a while I’ll give you a smile.

Ask nothing in return.

Nothing’s a trial and after a while

My heart just starts to burn.

Do you remember? How could you forget?

Must I surrender the love that I’ve kept

for you?

For you, my ramshackle darling,

I’ll love you ‘til I die.

Throw me a bone ‘cause I’m so alone,

And I’m feeling so aloof.

Communication means no reservations:

Just tell me the truth!

Do you remember? How could you forget?

Must I surrender the love that I’ve kept

for you?

For you, my ramshackle darling,

I’ll love you ‘til I die.

My ramshackle darling,

I know how hard you’ve tried.

my right hand

with my right hand

i trace the curve under your breast

where beauty meets the beast

and feel the smoothness of the space

matched only by your waist

with my right hand

i linger in your secret hiding place

to feel the wet between your thighs

and then to touch your face

i hesitate

what beauty lies within my grasp!

long lashes, smooth lips

and yet, like medusa’s tentacle

on a ripple-smooth lake,

with my right hand,

i wish to disturb this?

with my right hand

i lift your face to seek within your eyes

the place where both our lips shall meet

and hands fall by our sides

Nightmare

You treat me like a lover and you tell me no lies.

When you’re far away, I open my eyes

To the sight of thunder on a videotape scream.

Was it my reality or was it a dream?

You tell me that I love you; but, you never mean it.

Coming out of shadow is the way to leave it.

Dervish dancer on the prowl: victim asleep.

I revive to hypnotize my sockets so deep.

You’ve stolen my eyesight; you’ve taken my soul.

I trusted a nightmare; I’m paying the toll

Crossing the river, the river of pain.

With men in white jackets who think I’m insane.

You treat me like a lover and you tell me no lies.

When you’re far away, I open my eyes

To the sight of thunder on a videotape scream.

Was it my reality or was it a dream?

Nothing On My Walls

I haven’t seen you in a long time.

Your hair has changed; but, you’re still the same.

Since you’re asking; well, I feel fine.

I can tell that you feel the same.

I remember to that sometime

When we laughed and you got on that train.

I remember when you were mine.

I can tell that you forgot my name.

When I saw you at the party,

It’s been a week the other day,

You just looked at me so sadly

Then you looked the other way.

Now, were sitting on your backyard lawn. . .

Had to come: you don’t return my calls.

You’ve got children and a husband

And I am left with nothing on my walls.

I’ve got nothing on my walls.

I don’t have a photograph.

Not a picture or a painting

Of the love we used to have.

I’ve got nothing on my walls;

Now there’s nothing in my heart.

Though it seems like solitary,

I’ve got nothing there at all.

Old Lady Luck

I’m sitting at home

By the light of the moonlight

Pining for to see

A twinkling of hope

Under cover of starlight

Winking back at me

And I’ll try not to get too drunk at the pub

When I’m down on my luck and I’m out of a job.

I think of the touch

Of my bonnie Camille

Far across the sea

And I’ll pray, steal, and beg

To the Spinner of Wheels

To bring her home to me.

Tonight I’ll drink to Old Lady Luck:

She’ll tease you and kiss you then piss on your work.

Happy, go-lucky, go I beneath the starry sky

Drinking a pint for to fight off the night but the ale got the better of me.

I woke up this morn

At the first ray of sunlight

Camille caressing me.

During the night,

Lady Luck at the Wheel,

I’d sailed across the sea!

Tonight I’ll drink to Old Lady Luck:

She’ll tease you and kiss you then piss on your work.

D D G / D D G / G A7 (x2)   //  G D G A7

Puddles

The moon was waxing full.  Full as the pregnant womb.  Full as a new pack of Marlboro Lights.  Full as the passion in my soul.  I was walking home from the coffeehouse with what seemed like my millionth cigarette, still thinking about poetry and cold mocha cappucino.  It was one past the witching hour on a Thursday evening; this was one of my best days.

While reflecting back on the day as a puddle mirrors the puddle-stamping foot, I was surprised by a pair of gloves encircling me from behind.  Within these gloves were a pair of hands that I knew must belong to Samantha Harrison.

“Hey there, Rob; guess who!”, she said from behind me.

“Hey Sam,” I replied.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked as she circled to my side.

“I could never forget the feel of you feeling me.  What are you up to tonight?”

A sinister smile played on those ruby lips which betrayed a deeper red.  She hesitated.  “I’m practicing lunaception.”

            __________

The next morning, Friday morning, I awoke to find myself lying on the hardwood floor of Sam’s apartment.  Alone and entangled in the sheets as if I were a fly in a spider’s web, I tried to guess the time.  Perhaps ten or eleven?  In either case, Sam had left to answer the phones of Soho’s least remembered art critics.  My mother always told me to run after working girls.

I had only been in her apartment a few times before; however, like most East Village studios, it was decorated in an uneasy cross of Late-Twentieth-Century White Trash and Seventies Retro.  Hardwood floors were tainted by copies of The Village Voice and supermarket romance novels.  While the Ansel Adams’ prints were pretending to be in an investment banker’s corner office, there was a prevailing sense of steamy nights (of which last night was one), cigarette butts, and cheap whiskey.  It seemed like Nero Wolf should be walking around this place in his Sheriff’s costume saying, “All we have here is another one of them there city folk up to no good.”

Being the kind of man who liked to serve breakfast, and remembering that Sam was no longer around to serve breakfast to, I dragged my morning-stiff carcass to the kitchen area in search of a bottle of Clan MacGregor.  Unsuccessful, I crawled over to her desk, and, thankfully, found the liquor cabinet under it.  Finally standing up to prepare myself a drink, I spied a singularity among the papers strewn about her desk.  It was a business card.  According to the handwritten scrawl, it was the business card of her agent, and to my surprise, it was the business card of the managerial agency with which I had arranged an audition later that day.

Usually, this kind of occurrence wouldn’t change my feelings about anything much at all.  However, when I turned the card over and read the back, I came to the realization that perhaps something had changed between Sam and me.  Stated in plain, unencumbered Italian were the words: Prego, Roberto; ti amo.  In translation: “Your welcome, Robert; I love you.”

I took a deep swig of scotch.  At least enough to burn the nervous bile that was collecting at the base of my tongue.

Later, I walked into the audition with a hollowbody in hand and a Marlboro Red between my lips.  The agency boys were putting together a house band for a “new” club.  Call it the Slimelight or what you will, there’s nothing new about dance music, teenagers, and mixed drinks.  However, an empty wallet often overlooks contempt, and my wallet was as empty as the soul from whose snake-like carcass it was carved.  I needed the job.

When I was finished going through the paces with the rhythm section, I was told that line about who’ll call whom and ushered back out to the streets.  If getting this audition was any of Sam’s doing, I was going to be really pissed.

            __________

Monday morning arrived in usual fashion.  Garbagemen at five a.m., alternate-side-of-the-street parking regulations by seven a.m., Mrs. Glumkowski kicking the shit out of her goddamned chihuahua out on the boulevard at eight, and a workman standing on my head trying to dig a hole to China with a jackhammer.  At this point, there’s only two things a person needs: a bottle of Advil, and a cup of coffee to wash them down with.

The amount of coffee needed by the average out-of-work musician is measured by how much you can make him believe that he’s drinking tequila.  The most effective method is to tell him that he almost has the worm.  Musicians, like poets, are always waiting for the worm to turn.

What proved to be unusual about this Monday morning was the eight-fifteen phone call from Sam.

“Good morning, sweet Robbie.”

“Huh?  Oh hey, Sam, what’s up?”  I hadn’t called her or seen her all weekend, so I figured that I was about to catch hell for not returning her amorous advance the other day.  After all, great sex with a good friend is one thing, but love is a subject that shouldn’t be in the same sentence with a one-night-stand.

“I know that it’s early for you, but I wanted to tell you the good news.  I got the female lead in this great play about a love affair in Little Italy.  It’s called Prego, Roberto; ti amo.  What do you think?  Isn’t it great?”

Dumbfounded by the depth of my stupidity, I said, “Yeah, that’s great.  Listen, I have to go now, but I’ll meet you for lunch at Jane’s Chili House. Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll see you later then.  Bye.”

“Bye.” Click.  Reaching over to grab my trusty green bottle of Clan MacGregor, I tripped over my ego.  Falling from the bed onto the floor with a minimum of bounce and rolling over, my once-red-now-green-tinged self was staring at me from a puddle.  Apparently, I was now an owner of an empty bottle of Clan MacGregor.  I hate Mondays.

Roaches

As we neared the entrance of her apartment building, Suzanne let out a breath of cigarette smoke which the winter tried to crystallize to no avail; her breath was too hot.  We had spent most of the early evening hours skating at Rockefeller Center, eating hot dogs, and enjoying each other’s company at the Christmas Spectacular.  “It’s been a good third date”, I thought.  As we got closer to the door, she kissed me on the neck, wordless.  I moved to kiss her in return.  Instead, she broke our walking embrace, and bounded forward to the alleyway at the corner of her building–teasing.

“Come to me, my skating prince.  Follow me to my lonely tower for a taste of nightshade and ambrosia!” she called.

“I hadn’t realized how playful you’d become after the show,” I said and hurried to catch up to her.  After all, I couldn’t let even a twenty-eight-year-old civilian beat a forty-year-old police detective in a foot race.

She put on a coy mask, as if to say: “If you want me, you’ll have to catch me!”  Then, she ran all the way to the top of the stairs, turned, and waited for me.

“I’ll get you, you . . . .”

I was cut off by the sound of gunfire resounding across the street.  I leapt up to grab Suzanne as a flurry of shotgun blasts rattled the otherwise quiet neighborhood.  The run-down building across the street was suspected as being a den for heroin addicts, but activity there was generally pretty quiet.

I yelled to Suzanne, “Call 911!”, pulled out my thirty-eight, and ran across the street to the source of the racket.  When I was about thirty feet from the entrance, a smallish figure wielding a sawed-off shotgun and carrying a green duffle bag emerged from the building.  I pumped two warning shots into the air.  “Stop! Police!”  The frenzied figure continued to run down the street; so, hoping but not thinking, I shot at it.  I brought it down in two more blasts.  I took a quick look into the building, saw an obese man of indeterminate age lying across the foyer, and ran back to the attacker.  She was a young woman, still alive, perhaps drug-crazed.

“Fuck you, you goddamned roach.  I should have shot you when I had the chance.”  She spat blood at me, and rasped heavily.

“You’re going to be okay.  Now shut the fuck up.  You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will be, used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney . . . .”  I continued to read her her rights; meanwhile, she cursed at me, calling me roach.

“You roaches are everywhere!  Fucking crawling up my legs, into my underwear, into my mouth when I sleep!  God damn you all,” she spat.  “Get the hell off of me, you roach.  You’re smothering me.”  She tried to move, but she was loosing blood quickly and started getting groggy instead.  At this point, she was crying about getting the roaches off of her.  She passed out just as the Mercy boys got there.  I went to check on Suzanne.

            ________________

“Thanks for the statement, Joe.  It helps clear things up.”

“No problem, Ira.  How’s the girl–will she make it?”

“Who the fuck cares, Joe.  She’s just a goddamned roach herself.  She couldn’t give a crap if she lived or not.  By offing her lard-assed landlord, she lived up to her Iowa-runaway-maybe-a-hustler-maybe-a-junkie idea of what New York City is all about.  Joe, she could’ve done you in, the bitch.  Just forget about what happens to her.”

“Look, you asshole, I shot the girl.  I care about what the fuck happens to her.  I’m just glad that I left her alive, ’cause if it had been you out there in the street, we’d have had another New York City dreamer in a bodybag.  Ira, you’re the fucking roach.  When was the last time you walked a beat?  Do you remember the days when killing somebody was tantamount to murder?  I don’t think you do, Ira.”

“Look, Joe.  It’s my job in homicide to investigate murders.  It’s your job in narc to investigate junkies and dealers.  That means that I’m the authority on death, and your jurisdiction is people’s addiction with it.  I deal with two-bit murderers like your junkie in the hospital every day.  And as far as I’m concerned, she’s one less fruitcake on the streets.  She could have come after you, your girlfriend, or my family with that sawed-off shotgun and her addiction.  So don’t condemn me for not giving a shit if she gets another chance to kill my kids.”

Sacred Ground

We took the road less traveled by some.

You chose the one where the hope had begun;

I took the one where the butterflies flew

into the fields. I’m following you.

When you appeared to me as in a dream

and wanted to know if my thoughts were obscene,

I came to the rescue of my only friend

and told you a story that would never end.

            Whisper sweet and a honey raindrop

            dances on the sacred ground

            where the road behind us led to.

            This is what we found:

                        we’re on sacred ground.

We took the road less traveled once,

perhaps to find our happiness.

I found you in the field by the tree

of a ghost and a phantom: you and me.

            A ghost and a phantom

            on sacred ground.

Into the great wide open,

under the skies of blue

a ghost and a phantom,

two rebels without a clue.

She

Her legs were larger than they should be considering her height. Her breasts and belly were thin enough to match the bony spread of back that her dress disclosed. Even her dress was small and unbecoming, more like a belt really, with a lot of cleavage and an unforgiving expanse of thigh. It looked like a tablecloth in a cheap pizzeria: faux Italian.

Her black hair framed her face boyishly; she could have been a model — a little too much chin but beautiful black eyes. They were deep, dark, and empty. It was this vacancy, this darkness, that kept men from following her home. This darkness estranged her mother and enraged her father; it ended childhood.

But at 25, she was 15. Ignorant of sex, children and love. She had been the tall, gawky girl groped by high-school athletes at parties but never in back seats. Her thighs grew fat from too much sitting and not enough dancing; her long legs were wasting.

She was eager confidant to her extroverted friends. She wore the same clothes even if they did not fit. She coughed on cigarettes and developed a darker tan than most. But no man enjoyed that or kissed her lower back. And now that she was 25, they were not invited anymore.

shit brown

i purchased a

shit brown shirt

at the army navy discount store

large and irregular

like a 1974 malibu

it’s ugly, and it doesn’t

fit right

but it’s the color

of my coffee

and the way i

flick my ash

in your direction that

turns your stomach and

my brown eyes blue

sidewalk

look at that                                  boy. in my day,                                 he would have                                helped me                                  with my package                          maybe he doesn’t                           doesn’t have                            time to spend                            on an old woman                            crawling along                             the sidewalk                               ten paces and i                            wish he could                                help

who is thatold womanstop-walkingon my sidewalkin this town youdon’t help oldladies with theirpackages becausethey think youmust be a drugcrazed pervertor something iwish i could help

Simple

I could have been the Eagle

Flying with the morning gods.

Swooping down into the valley

To the music of the hounds.

I could have been the Serpent

That hangs around the apple tree.

Hissing tales of sweet temptation

That spin the turgid sea.

I could have been the Eagle

Or the Serpent or the Tree

Or perhaps a greater thing

Than any man could be.

Smoke

“. . . the kind of stories that people turn life into,

the kind of lives that people turn stories into.”

–Nathan Zuckerman, in Philip Roth’s The Counterlife

In Israel on the border near the town of Hebron, there is a missile aimed at Damascus.  This weapon of Jewish National Security is in response to the missile that the Arab States have aimed at Haifa.  If one side were to abruptly dismantle their missile, the expected response would be their total annihilation.  This is the sickness that has stricken humanity: the pervasive and perverse view that compassion and humility–weakness–must be met with violence.  How small is man that he has not the courage to respond in kind to an act of humanity.

In the first half of 1992, the violence in the streets of South Central Los Angeles catapulted racial tensions into an even greater Nielsen share of the media.  Disregarding the media’s disgusting appropriation of South Central’s body count to rake in profits, I will never forget the videotape footage of a white man being dragged out of his car and being beaten to death by four angry rioters.  This riot was not about Rodney King.  However, if the acquittal of Rodney King’s batterers was ever an issue, I do not understand the impetus to kill an innocent man in like fashion.  This is how small man can be.

Man seems to want to live on the edge of death.  In the twentieth century, he finally has the means to test the boundaries of mortality.  The means are cheap and readily available.  Every dimestore flunky can get his hands on something.  And some are better than others.

And what about the edge?  What about going to extremes?  No matter how close your addiction brings you to it, you are still there: at the edge.  You still only have two choices.  Jump or don’t jump.  However, man refuses to make a choice; he stands at the edge trying to see how close he can get to falling in without making a conscious decision to jump.  Man deserves and desires the Ninth Plane of Hell.  Like Israel and Jordan, like The Cold War, like Tommy and Jimmy on the playground, man wants the best of two mutually exclusive worlds.

So it goes.

I’ve known Sid for about ten years now.  We grew up together.  Seen each other naked, smoked dope, and dropped acid together.  We even bought our first condoms together.  Chalk all of that up to our formative years.  Nevertheless, we had never roomed together until this year.  And tension had built up as unexpectedly as the way that we had grown together.

Our most basic and our only really strong difference was the fact that Sid always wanted a better look over the edge without falling in and I had recently come to realize that I wasn’t going to follow him if he did fall in.  Or if he jumped.  I want to finish with what I started first.  Then, when it’s time, I’ll go.  And I don’t mean death; I’m talking about the other side–like the Doors’ song.  I have gone as close to the edge as I want; I feel that I have a good idea about what’s on the other side.  And it’s not time for me yet.  Sid thinks that he is merely testing the boundaries.  Now, where did I put that Ninth Plane of Hell?

Sid will have to make a choice someday.  If he doesn’t, the opportunity may well be taken from him.  I don’t want to find his body lying in the gutter due to some kind of overdose.  In truth, it would be like finding my own.  After all, I am not so far from the edge myself.  Deep inside Sid’s psyche (and my own) there exists a real fear of facing life as it is.  The stoner joke is that there’s always another way to look at it.  We played state-dependent games of Don’t Look At It That Way back in college.  But it never changes.  It is still there.  Smoldering life; it neither rises like the Phoenix nor burns out like a cigarette butt.  Sid and I were always trying to live life as it was handed to us with separate success.  And that success was measured by quiet moments spent in introspection, not by the number of hits we could snag off of a pipe while nobody else in the circle noticed.

Sid and I were really very much alike, however.  We  both covered ground in terms of experience.  The difference was merely in the way that we did it.  His approach to enlightenment was by and large a breath-first search, and mine was depth-first.  In some ways, that is why we were drawn toward each other–living lives of schizophrenic symbiosis.  For example, Sid eventually chose to explore many different highs.  In contrast, I tried to experience fully only a very few highs.  The desperation came when we couldn’t live lives that were completely separate from the other’s opposing viewpoint.

It was one of those early December nights.  The kind of night where the cold bites as deeply as if it were a hungry wolf.  Sid and I were walking down towards Bleeker Street on our way down to CBGB’s at the Bowery smoking cigarettes and feeling happy about our place in the world.  Just two single, heterosexual, wild, and crazy guys looking to get hooked up.  CB was a dive, but we needed a drink.  And it was the nearest place with live music.

Somewhere in Little Italy, we decided to walk across a dark parking lot and through the alley at the other end.  Sid said that he knew a shortcut.  It was about ten p.m., and there wasn’t much light from the few stores that were still open.  However, like typical New Yorkers in December, we disregarded the dark and ran like hell to get into the warmth of that alley.

As we were huddling in the warmth of a subway grate in the parking lot end of the alley, Sid leaned up against the wall and lit a cigarette.  “All this for a few beers and cheap thrills?  It’s too fucking cold, man; we should have caught a cab.”

“O come on, it’s not far now.  And the money that you would have spent on the taxi will get you another drink.  Or maybe her if your complaining doesn’t scare them all away.  Let’s get going.  Time is flying way too fast.”

The alley was pretty typical; puddles, killer roaches, and rats the size of my cat lived here.  There was the stink of burnt spaghetti sauce in the air, and quite a few open dumpsters.  About midway down the alley, we heard a slap that sounded like a man hitting a woman.  It came from somewhere above us; probably from one of the apartments.  As we looked up to see what was going, a shot rang out resoundingly in that cramped alleyway.  Instinctively, Sid and I hit the gravel and rolled to opposite sides of the alley.  Seconds later, a heavy, female body fell to the ground between us.  Before we had a chance to realize our shock, her body was hit by an agonizingly slow succession of bullets from above.  Each time that she was hit, her body bounced.  It seemed like an eternity occurred between each bullet.  After five more shots, the bullets stopped.  Blood was pooling underneath her, and the smell of cheap perfume intermingled with the stench of her burning flesh.  Speechless and stunned, neither one of us made a move towards her for fear of that lead rain.

After some initial scuffling above us, a terrible silence ensued.  It was as horrifingly quiet as the moment just prior to a thunderclap.  Sid and I lay frozen in time and space for about a minute and a half.  Right about then, we heard the faraway scream of the sirens.  A prolonged wail that announced New York’s donut-popping finest.  After a slight pause, Sid jumped up and ran in the direction of Bleeker street.  In a more prolonged hesitation, and after I realized why he had run, I followed him.  Losing track of him out on the avenue, I expected that he’d caught a cab to CB’s without waiting for me.  “Dick,” I thought.

I found him at CB’s drinking a margarita and pretending to be listening to the Manchester-beat band on stage.  He was sweating, and he looked uncomfortable.  I ordered a beer and sat down next to him.

“Alright, what have you got on you?”, I asked.

“I must have dropped it in the alley.  Just some dope, man.  I don’t need to go to jail for possession again.  And besides, she didn’t need our help.”

“A good man is hard to find in New York City.  A clean man: even harder.  We’re luckier than hell that two of those bullets weren’t meant for us.  After all, it was the fall that killed her.”  I took a sip.  “You know that we could still help the Blue on this.”

“What, walk into the precinct and say, ‘Hey guys! Guess what I saw and ran away from!’.  No thanks.  They wouldn’t buy it and neither would you.  You’d better just be happy that you’re still breathing and leave well enough alone.  It isn’t your fucking business anyway.”

“A woman gets shot six times in a back-street alley after falling from god knows where after the first shot onto our laps, and you tell me that it’s not our fucking business!  Man, what planet are you on?”

I thought for a second and, after a pause, I continued.  “Look, I wouldn’t want to go to jail for possession either.  You don’t need that on your record again, and I understand.  But, just don’t you forget that it happened.  Someday it might happen to you.  And there won’t be any witnesses then either.”

We both spent the evening immersed in our own thoughts.  We each spent the evening alone. For Sid and me, addiction was always an easier way to greet death.

 A week after that incident, Sid and I were walking home from a friend’s Christmas party down in Chinatown.  We walked up the Bowery towards Houston, then west; we needed the straightest path since we were both a little drunk.  It was three a.m. and portentously silent.

Upon entering our front door, I realized that something was definitely wrong, and I stopped short.  However, Sid, who was walking behind me, didn’t and we fell forward in a drunken heap.  Before we got much of a grip on the fact that we were tangled up and lying on our hardwood floor, a booming voice switched on the light and greeted us.

“Real cute, assholes.  Get the fuck up!”  The sight of his police-issue thirty-eight with the silencer and the kung-fu grip pointed at my nose sobered me up faster than a gallon of coffee could have.  He motioned for us to sit down on the couch as he slammed shut the door.

He was a large man in the first dozen years of middle age.  With a straight Roman nose, large forehead, and thirty extra pounds; he reminded me of Batman’s Penguin.  Well, maybe a really tall Penguin.  He could have passed for a crude interpretation of my ex-girlfriend’s Hungarian father.  He sat down in the opposing armchair to stare at us.

“About a week ago, you two boys saw something that you shouldn’t have.  And now, I’m going to have to kill you if you give me any trouble.”  Before we could explain that we weren’t going to give him any, Sid lunged at the man.  As he did so, the man discharged his pistol twice in the direction of Sid’s forehead.  The first bullet come out of the cracked skull of my roommate.  Milliseconds later, the second bullet hit me in the side of the head grazing me in the temple.  I saw the bloody mess that was my friend’s head, and then I lost consciousness.

When I awoke, I was lying in a hospital with a bandage on my head and my left leg hurt.  From what the investigators told me, Sid’s murderer had shattered our left kneecaps as well.  I interpreted this as a warning to our families that they should stay out of things.  I was numb and could only think of what life would be like without Sid.

“At least it wasn’t a drug overdose,” I told Sid’s brother at their mom’s house after the funeral.

“Might as well have been,” he replied.  “Sid never had the chance to settle down like he’d always wanted to.  That’s the real shame.  I wish that he could just have relaxed, not taken life in such large gulps.”

“That’s advice too hard too swallow in retrospect of the kind of lives that we both led.  At least I survived to keep his dreams alive–the things that he stood for.”  But do I really want to?  I mean, Sid never had the chance to realize his hopes and dreams fully, and who knows if I will.  I told the police everything about the woman and the murderer that I knew, except for the detail about the pot.  In memory of Sid, I couldn’t bear it if his family knew what kind of life he had led in the city.

The woman had been a hooker and a police informant.  She had stayed out of jail by spilling the beans on the neighborhood crack dealers.  Since she was an independent, she didn’t have a pimp to protect her from the local riff-raff.  As the official report goes, she was killed during a fight with a Johnny because she didn’t want to be tied down.  The killer left the rope on the fire escape and the note, ‘lasso the bitch’, in a semi-literate scrawl attached to the foot of the bed.  Nobody knows anything about who he was or why he felt that he had to kill her.  I would like to know how he tracked Sid and I down.

That’s when it occurred to me.  The pot.  On the night of the murder, Sid had run because he had been carrying pot.  At CBGB’s, he had told me that he must have dropped it.  We rarely carried more than an eighth on us at any one time; the question was, how could the killer have run down into the alley, scooped up the marijuana bag, and traced us through it?

Number three was easy.  The dope must have been treated with something.  Whatever underground lab treated it was probably well connected with our supplier, Fred.  That meant that Fred must have somehow directed the killer to us.  Time to give him a call.

As soon as I was able, I was walking with a cane and a cast up to Fred’s apartment.  Sid and I had smoked there many times, and Fred was a true friend.  So, I suspected that any move to lead the killer to us had to have been inadvertent.  I hadn’t seen Fred at the funeral, but that was no surprise.

When I knocked on Fred’s door, it fell open to reveal Fred lying facedown and quite still on the living room floor.  The place was trashed; it smelled like the dog had died.  I hobbled over to Fred to make sure that he was okay.  But when I reached him, his body was ice cold, and he wasn’t breathing.  When I turned him over, I realized what he had died from.  His hands were handcuffed in front of him.  In his mouth there was about a month’s supply of Fred’s favorite drug, cocaine.  He had it pouring out of his nose.

For better or for worse, I had guessed correctly; the killer had been here.  I started searching for clues.  The most important item in this distributor’s files is his version of the rolodex.  It listed all of the places where he could have gotten his hands on stuff to deal.  Fred’s was encrypted onto a computer chip on the motherboard of his computer.  And two of the three people who knew how to access it were dead now.  I salvaged the motherboard from the scattered pieces of hardware that occupied the floor in the bedroom, and I took it home to decode.  Before I left the apartment, however, I found Fred’s gun still in it’s hiding place and took that with me also.

At home, I hooked up the motherboard to my chassis and enabled the computer to work.  After several false starts, I was able to narrow down my search of Fred’s files to include only those operations that had local treatment capability.  If the lab had pointed the killer towards Fred, then it must have been a small operation for which Fred was an exclusive dealer.  I checked the files and came up with Peabo Simpson, an independent chemist from abroad with a strong connection to Jamaican Red distributors in the Caribbean.  I had smoked his brand before–good shit.  He was next on my list.  I took Fred’s gun and decided to pay Mr.Simpson a visit.

At Mr.Simpson’s, I was able to gather the name of the murderer.  It appeared that a Sergeant La Scalla had recently ordered a sting operation at Mr.Simpson’s lab.  The narcs had done their job well and imprisoned Simpson.  They had quickly shut down his operation, and the DEA was on their way when I arrived.  I was able to hide behind a dumpster and watch and listen to part of the cleanup from the sting.  From what I gathered about La Scalla at the sting, I concluded that he might have been the murderer.

La Scalla had ordered the sting operation just prior to leaving for his week-long Christmas break in Ft.Lauderdale, Florida.  La Scalla had a wife and two kids with him, a boy and a girl; he was a good family man and a twice-decorated policeman.  He was due back in two days, so I took the next available flight.  If luck was with me, La Scalla was the man I was looking for.

In Ft.Lauderdale, I found a gun store and praised the government for the no-waiting period laws that allowed every lunatic to purchase semi-automatic rifles to shoot deer easily and affordably.  I bought a Smith and Wesson revolver, a snub-nosed thirty-eight, and ammunition.  In a secret session with the owner, I also managed to get a silencer.  It was time to find my murderer.

After consulting various hotels and rental agencies, I tracked La Scalla down.  He was taking in the morning sun next to the swimming pool of his beachfront escape–a cheap, little motel.  Do you pay by the hour?  The fat bastard was gulping a Dos Equis and watching his children swim.  I didn’t see his wife.  I was taking precautions by wearing gloves and putting the loaded and ready to fire gun inside a newspaper.  I approached him and sat down in the next lounge-chair.  His children had gone inside, and we were left alone.  He had his eyes closed now and was sunning himself.

“Beautiful day!”, I said.

“You got that right, mister,” he replied without opening his eyes.  “I sure would hate to see it come to an end.”

“Too bad,” I replied.  And then I blew his brains out with a single bullet.  “It really was a nice day.”  I put the gun in his hand.  I picked up his beer and drank it.  I took the next flight home.

It’s been six years since Sid’s death.  I’ve learned to walk again with only the occasional help of a cane, and the police are more than halfway into the Statute of Limitations.  La Scalla’s murderer has four more years to roam the streets of New York City as a fugitive.  In a city of eight million, the homicide rate is higher than it ever was, and nobody has the time to look into the death of my best friend.  New York is just like Fort Lauderdale, or any city for that matter; nothing much changes and the little guy with a gun has all the power.

I hope to be a big man someday.  If I get the chance.

something

I

something

about last night

something about how

you let me wash your hair

in the shower

or maybe something about how

you screamed at two a m

maybe a version

of the fairy

tale you told me

to get me

to sleep

II

something

about this morning

something about when

you brought your spare toothbrush

and left it here next

to the washcloth you

left last week

or maybe something about how

you forgot to put underwear on

but remembered the make-up

as you rushed off to catch

the early trains to new york

and that job you hate

and do so well

Stormcloud

Stormclouds move in from the West;

Someone’s got to go.

I detect your second best. . . 

What’re you going to do . . . now ?

Stormclouds moving: deep and dark;

Someone’s got to go.

You were ‘Barefoot In The Park’ —

Where you going to run to ?

Stormclouds move in from the West;

All good things must end.

I detest the second best —

Receive my heart to mend.

Willow ‘wisp is in the air,

Sparrow’s flying low,

In the silence I despair:

There’s no place left to go . . . .

Stormcloud

Stormcloud

I cried for you;

I died for you.

Stormclouds move in from the West,

Brave the falling snow.

For the love, I will protest,

“Let my people go !”

Taxman

Tell me a story about the people that you meet on the street.

Now, don’t be sorry ’bout the people that you meet on the street.

Life in a box never made you a king or a queen.

Sing as the fox while the hound is a cop on the beat.

Tell me a tale about the way you move

When the lights come down on broadway.

Chewing on rocks while you beg for food,

It’s quite a different world than my way.

Tell me a tale about the hurt you feel

When the taxman put you under;

Tell me a tale about the hurt you feel

When your baby says it’s over.

            Taxman: Taking all my money !

            Taxman: Eating all my food !

            Taxman

            Taxman

Girls of the night and people that would cry their life away.

Everyone is armed and people that are harmed are made to pay.

You hide in a box (with the roaches): share your meat with another lonely man.

Steal the paper, read it, and watch the mayor sayin’, “We are doing what we can.”

Tell me a tale ’bout the way you groove

When the lights come down on broadway.

Everyone is walking and everyone is talking

While you rake in the profits so you never pray.

When the night is over and you find yourself some cover,

You will understand the meaning of this prophecy:

All the world’s a stranger when you find yourself in danger

Of his majesty.

            Taxman: Taking all my money.

            Taxman: Eating all my food.

            Taxman

            Taxman

Taxman take the money, like candy from a baby, and use it to

            destroy the enemy.

Never fought a soldier, but will when I get older;

            I don’t want to finance death you see.

Testament

you left your personal Jesus dangling on my cross

and when your hand releases me, who will mourn your loss

and when you cry you always cry for “i”

and when you die you soil the bed in which you lie

you left me crying–bleeding–at your church front door

as i stood up still reeling, you threw me at your whore

            standing naked and violated

            give a testament

the last drag

we smoked that cigarette

down to the last drag.

hell, we enjoyed it.

but when the fire

finished it

and the last ashes 

hit the ground,

i went to put it out,

but you grabbed it.

you grabbed it

to smoke the filter

alone,  and i just

i just stood there

and watched.

The Scars of a Carpenter

I wasn’t born with a picture of Jesus

Tattooed across my heart

When I was young I though he was Elvis

And preached from the back of a cart

If he wore the scars of a carpenter

Do you suppose the Romans would martyr him

If he’d had the chance

He’d run away with Mary Magdalene.

Jerry Lee Lewis marries his cousin

Although she was only fourteen

A bastard son from the rape of an angel

Made Mary a Virgin Queen

If she wore the stains of a woman

Do you suppose the Lord would have chosen her?

If he’d had the chance

He’d father a son with each virgin in Bethlehem.

Am  Am  C  G

E  A7  C7  C9add6  Dm7  Fm7  B7

the screaming of the kiss

i have sinned.  i held forever

in my hands and dropped her.

she said that if she was not the sun,

she would be nothing at all

and locked herself away

in a london cathedral

on st.valentine’s day

again

the christmas gift:

rosetti’s stained glass kiss

in miniature hangs at my window

a sealed vessel for ten-thousand dreams

in the morning, the sun still shines

through the lover’s lips

am i mute or am i deaf

to the screaming of the kiss

The Under-bed Creature at my Parents’ House

Because butterflies still sing in childhood,

My parents bought me an under-bed creature;

They and the shrink thought that it might do me good.

But my head is filled with double feature:

Moth-ra and Godzilla speaking foreign

Tongues with mouths that can’t seem to fit the words—

Pleasant words, I think, are so alluring—

But words don’t fit the second film of herds

Of screaming flying jumping wildebeests

Running naked landscapes, over my shrink,

As they gulp gallons of infected yeast

And to my parents’ house for a quick think.

I’d call it home if I could lie,

But it’s my parents’ house:

You know why.

thirst

slow breaths taken

deeper and longer than

others, and certain

sidelong glances.

a touch:

everything deliberate.

sweet smouldering burn–

skin touch watch hands.

fire frames your smile and

colours your damp tresses:

would that I could breathe you.

poorly mixed pale water and

a fine red wine:

would that I could drink you.

swirl in your fingers

like the way you played

with your hair then

dropped your hand at

your smooth waist

(they say you shouldn’t

send letters like this.

they say that these things are

private but i am

a romantic and

things are not that simple.

we are not prone to reality;

we invent it just as well.)

Upcountry

Harry had been working at the Broken Mill feed store for a year. His job was loading orders onto customer trucks, and, every once in a while, he hauled feed directly to the farm. Although Broken Mill was near the dam, it was convenient and centralized enough for the folks in the valley that made up River County.

Harry thought it was unusual then that on this early autumn morning, he had to deliver some feed to a farm upriver. There weren’t many people up there, and on account of the lack of pasture, few had livestock.

“Still,” Harry thought, “that’s a nice drive, and it won’t take long. After all, I have nothing better to do.”

Time was something Harry had plenty of. Most of the available women his age had run off to the city — to be with a man or a career or both. He stepped out as often as any young man in River County might, but his luck was scarce and temporary.

As Harry turned into the lane wondering aloud if his luck was going to change, he spied the farm he was looking for. It was small for an upcountry farm — only a handful of useful acreage nestled in that mountainous country north of the dam. There were a few chickens running across the yard, and hogs snorted at him from behind a fence. Between the barn and the main house, there was a little stone well.

The house itself was small and cozy — made from rock and timber from the nearby mill. The whole place smelled of cooking, apple, and cinnamon. It reminded Harry of the old farms he had seen as a child before they built the dam, but that was a long time ago.

Since there was no one in sight, Harry decided to unload the feed by the barn doors. With that chore done, he wiped his brow, removed his baseball cap, and approached the door of the house. He knocked on the old gray wood but received only echoes for his answer. After a few minutes, Harry decided to walk around back and try that door.

She was sitting on a swing beneath a weeping cherry tree, eating a bright red apple, and drinking sunlight. Harry had just rounded the corner of the house, hadn’t seen her. She called to him, “Hey, over here!” That’s when he saw her.

Her legs were longer than they should have been considering her height. Her breasts and belly were thin enough to match the bony spread of back that her dress disclosed. Harry thought that it didn’t become her. There was too much cleavage and too much thigh. It reminded him of a tablecloth in the cheap pizzeria in town: faux Italian. She was smiling at him, beckoning him closer.

Harry thought that she was beautiful, but gawky and a caricature in that dress that covered her like a belt. He came closer to ask for his money.

She said, “Here.”

And she reached out her hand to him. He took her hand to shake it, but she pulled him closer.

welcome home

Cold coffee and light cigarettes on a day when I feel like an ashtray.  Shit.  I wakeup again with a headache born of last night’s brain damage.

where am i?

Sleep wa(l)king.  Winona Ryder is on the counter in the kitchen area looking like Juliana Hatfield.  The Saturday Morning Cartoons across the room are barely audible.  The bathroom floor is cold.  I must be home.  Better open my eyes then, that is: unhinge them.  Crack.

Home is a one-room studio apartment in Chelsea, close to nothing.  I own books of poetry, hardwood floors, Monet prints, and leather furniture.  But what good are they on Saturday Mornings?

i only get up to satisfy my addictions.

Out of habit, I light a cigarette.  Out of habit, I grab a cold slice of last night’s pizza.  Another imported beer.  I suck on the cigarette like a pacifier.  Then, I eat the ambrosia-pizza and gulp in the aftertaste of European yeast.  “This isn’t so bad,” I think.  “I can do this.”  Build confidence.

After breakfast, I shower with resolve.  I sing: “My mother told me there’d be days like this.”  I get dressed in a white shirt and blue jeans to look like a prophet or a messiah.  Then I walk out to the street.

Standing on the street, I hail a cab and get in.  Outside, the people look like a movie–a freak show.  Studs and violet hair clash with business suits and rags.  How I wish I were among them, walking and laughing.  Do I remember how?  I . . . I think so.

We get to the park, so I pay the taxi driver and hop out.  The park reminds me of the suburban atrocities I left long ago.  But there are no picket fences here, no housewives making lemonade, and no fat men cutting grass.  Well, that’s not exactly right: there are fat men cutting grass here. These men put up menus that read: Tab of Acid – $4; Eighth of Shrooms – $30; Marijuana: Nickel, Dime, and Quarter Bags; Crack Vial – $10.

ask about our discount plans!

How convenient these men are for me; thank you for letting me buy a chunk of heaven!  When you trip, you always feel like you are asking to see God–the vertigo of standing at the edge of a cliff trying to peer over the edge.  I pay a cheap price for synthetic prayer today.

Looking at the Green Skeleton, I wonder if this is worth the trouble.  Should I jeopardize myself to look over the side of the cliff?  I always have trouble deciding–I’m not that experienced.  After all, I’m not Aldous Huxley or Siddhartha.  Will I want to come back?

I ingest the tab as usual.  Chew slowly, then swallow.

wait

Stage 1

Swirling, spinning, melting painted people walk past me.  They ask me for directions; tourists ask me to take their pictures–steal their souls.  I groove with their ignorance; it astounds me.  Don’t they understand that I can listen to all the conversations at a party at once?  Do they know what it’s like to be like this?  Some do understand.  Some know.

I wander to the fields of grass.  This cultured, green sea of life.  The leaves tickle me through my shoes.  Wait, now they are blades that cut at my feet.  I lay down to stare at the clouds.  They are too defined.  I find myself hallucinating about dragons and crabs.

Stage 2

Falling through.  Sinking.  Pressure.  No expectations to delude me from this.

Stage 3

Go to the New York City Public Library.  Run around the stacks of books.  Find the oldest book you can, and gleam wisdom from it; smell it.  Learn about the Civil War (the first one).  Cain and Able.  Play in the elevator.  Feel the electricity that runs alongside you from wall socket to wall socket.  Remember Billie Holiday.

Stage 4

I’m back home.  I light a candle, and watch the smoke rise from another cigarette.  “I Love Lucy” is on TV.

turn it off.

Outside influences–like the TV are very difficult to deal with right now.  Brain: Why is it that the television holds so much importance in our lives?  This warped, social mirror that pins our attention spans to thirty second slices of moral living.  Soul: I thought that we were all allotted fifteen minutes in the sun.

i need to go outside.

Stage 5

I’m starting to get off of this rollercoaster ride.  Things are slowing down too quickly.  What it is to be in the fourth dimension.  In and out of time.  Every time that I look at the edges of a room, I perceive that the room itself is really curved–as if it is part of a very large torus.

Edges.  I watch the smoldering ash of my cigarette butt as it rolls off of the pavement and down towards a man laying over a subway vent. Tripping is like standing at the edge of this incredible cliff.  And all the while, I keep peering over the edge–never seeing bottom.  Desperately, I try to weigh whether or not I should jump.

jump

I read a story yesterday by Nadine Gordimer called “Jump”.  In it the protagonist decides not to jump out of his tenth-story window.  The metaphor is that he is choosing life over death.  However, if I juxtapose the tenth-story plummet to the cliff, am I making a similar choice?  Perhaps psychadelia is Tao to return to The Source.

Stage 6

Everything is humming.  I can hear the electricity of the city running past me.  Feel the megawatts of radiation coursing through my body like the tingling shiver I felt prior to my first kiss.  Music washes over me.  Flutes and sirens.

I catch the subway to the Theater District amid the stench of urine and commuters.  “Are you going to see The Show?” they ask.  No.  I’m not.  I don’t care for your philanthropy.  Or for your categories.

“Why are you being such a cow?!?” I reply.  “The cattle-prod of the media pushes you to expectations about ‘What’s In.’ and ‘What’s Out.’, and you become a creature of style.  Fur and Tuxedos to disguise your obese body that soaks in the sweat of others at feeding time.  Meanwhile, you too are being milked of your abilities, your capacities, your soul.”

i refuse to be soul-food.

They stare.  They do not realize that I can see through their curtain-time smiles and their monocles.  I leave the theater district in search of real food.

Stage 7

My trip is almost over now.  I’m back at Chelsea in my apartment.  It’s ten o’clock, and I’m tired.  However, the cliff is still there–ready for the jumping.  There’s always a point when I feel like I really do have a choice.  Should I go for broke?  Is this insanity?  Am I crazy?

yes.

            __________

I’m standing at the edge of the cliff.  Arms raised in a ‘V’–assuming the position of a politician or a preacher–I bring the prophet alive.

            i am.

                                                                                                            you are.

                                                                                                            help me

                                                                                                            overcome

                                                                                                            my fear.

            yield to it.

                                                                                                            how?

            return to the source.

I look down into The Chasm.  It writhes there in agonizing beauty.  Spinning dragon–king of balance.  Sickle of Harvest.  Uterus of Creation.  This edge is like the clitoris.  It is there–down in That Place/No Place–where lament meets orgasm.  Life and Death unite in The Source.  Love and Hate become one.  Every thing and being meld together to exist within The Source.  I must let go.  But when?  When do I let go?

wait, i understand.

I have come too far this time.  I have no more bounds.  I can not resist The Source; that is its nature.  Resistance and compliance do not exist in terms of The Source.  I am one with it as it is with me.

We stand on the edge looking over the side and pretend that we have a choice.  On the contrary, The Source is all things; hence, our choices are, in effect, The Source’s choices.  I am a piece of Heaven.

i am jumping.  i am in harmony.

            __________

Epilogue

“Gotta get up.  Gotta get up.  Gotta get up on Sunday Morning!”

fuck you.

Goddamned, son-of-a-bitching TV.  Who left that on?  Jesus Christ.  What day is it?  After some fumbling, I open my eyes and look at the clock.  Eight a.m.  I feel like my head is wrapped in cellophane.

I want some coffee.  I need a shower.  Remembrances of yesterday cramp my stomach.  Instinctively, I growl my salute to the day.

fuck you.

Body: turn over and roll out of bed.  Slam.  With some reluctance, I acknowledge the pain.  I look up and out the window.  The sky is out.  Sun streams in–uninvited.  It’s too bright–unbalanced.  The sun is simply wrong.

JUMP

So, I do.  The ground rushes up to meet me as I fall slowly towards The Source.  I do not regret.

welcome home.

where pigs go for exhibition and fine furniture

a homeless man

lying on the feet of the stock

exchange for just one penny,

just one chance,

one piece of fine furniture,

and a truckload of bacon

Wish I Were

wish i were shakespeare or a smarter man

that words could do me justice when i called on them

wish i were eastwood or a harder man

that looked like don quixote `cause i’d know where to stand

but i don’t and i don’t know if i ever will

i won’t standing by the windowsill

looking at the crowds as they go by

wish i were bogart with a stronger chin

to weather all the storms that come from hard traveling

wish i were guthrie with a james dean cigarette

hanging with the hoboes at a local luncheonette

but i don’t and i don’t know if i ever will

i won’t standing by the windowsill

looking at the crowds as they go by

you looked through the window

with a question in your eyes:

are you the windowdresser

or are you his favorite prize?

wish i were with you on this lonely night

when the comfort of a bottle is a pale firelight

i know that each and every night we spend alone

is a night closer together as soon as you come home

Xyz

Xyz opened the door of the house that she lived in.  As she let go of the tarnished doorknob, she breathed in the musty smell of a coffin–her one-room chunk of tenement; (she called this place home?).  Xyz lived on the Lower East Side of New York City at 18th Street and 2nd Avenue: too high for Chinatown and too low for Soho or The Village Voice.  If anywhere, she lived in Eastern-most Chelsea.

Once inside, Xyz prayed that she didn’t have roaches.  She prayed for the roaches to be smart enough to get out of their lease and move uptown. Then she thought about the many difficulties that she had experienced while living in that apartment: carrying a gun for protection; the shit-coloured linoleum floors; and the regular harrasment of the local blue.  With a flickering of fluorescence, she surveyed the results of what they called “a routine inspection.”  They hadn’t found her stash, but they had tossed about all of her belongings as neatly as the inside of a washing machine would have.  With a bite to the lip and a resolute sigh, she slowly began the arduous task of rearranging her things.

Midway through the three-foot-tall pile of clothing and junk, Xyz got a mean look in her eye.  “God-damned bastard!”, she grumbled, “Fuck him.”  She found her stained duffle-bag, shook it free from debris, and proceeded to fill it with clothing, cartons of cigarettes, cosmetics, tapes, a sketch-book, her diary, and a recent copy of The New York Times.  Without a second thought, she grabbed the bag, stood up, and walked out over the coffee-stained linoleum floor, past the withered eye of a dead rose in a dry vase, and under the still-flickering bare bulb.

Halfway down the hall, Xyz hesitated.  Remembering her keys, still on the kitchen counter, she quickly turned around and ran back to the smothering room.  “This is the last time,” she said and entered the apartment.  As she went to snatch up her keys, she spied a solitary roach retreating to relative safety under the refrigerator.  Xyz stifled tears of depression as she ran down six flights of stairs to the street below, keys in hand.  When she reached the last landing, she pounded on the landlord’s door.  When he opened the door, this large Buddha-shaped mountain with tracks on his arms, she threw the keys at him and stood firmly, defiantly, in silence.  A low rumble escaped the mountain, and seconds later, the mountain became a shivering volcano of laughter, jiggling in harmony with the screech and tumble of the subway below.

            __________

When Xyz came to, there was white all around her.  Her head hurt; it was hard to open her eyes.  But even in this state, she knew where she was:  St.Mary’s Hospital.  She knew that there was a police guard outside the door.  She knew that he had a semi-automatic 9mm gun in his holster filled with bullets that would be happy to let her out of her lease.  Xyz felt whole, complete.  Done.  She laughed quietly as she removed her life-support.  As her body grew colder, she contemplated Venus and Gilgamesh and a large, dead, fat man.

You And I (Lovers In Utopia)

Thought I was a fool once;

It happens all the time.

Funny how the tears run;

Will they run away ?

You And I:

Lovers In Utopia.

As we lie,

I tell you that I love you.

You reply,

Without hesitation,

Twinkle eye,

“It’s not infatuation .  .  .  .”

Did I hear you calling,

Calling at my name ?

If you’d really fallen,

I’d treat you just the same.

You And I:

Lovers In Utopia.

As we lie,

I tell you that I love you.

You reply,

Without hesitation,

Twinkle eye,

“It’s not infatuation .  .  .  .”

Lovers watch the sun rise

To the sky above.

Looking into your eyes,

I feel the warmth of love.

You And I:

Lovers In Utopia.

As we lie,

I tell you that I love you.

You reply,

Without hesitation,

Twinkle eye,

“It’s not infatuation .  .  .  

Must be love.”

G / D C G

G / D C G

G  C  G  D  G  C  G  D7