New York Radio

Voice of the Heart

2020-07-28T10:07:00.000-04:00

I watch the glow of my joint burn out

As I find a new way of dreaming

Beneath the stairs.

I keep the jester’s hand on the end of a chain

Around my neck

And strangle the promises made by the heavens

And I the buffoon bought.

Now I just stare outside the window

Through the eyes of a cold

as ghosts

Drift down river

Then are gone.

Maybe it was the Nyquil

Somewhere down the avenue of memories

Where SROs still stand

one can hear

Fuck!

Shouted from a window.

Just goes to show that love is a speckled egg

That doesn’t hatch angels or devils

But ordinary voices

Of unordinary men

Or women.

It’s the voice of the

Naked heart.

Last Hour of Otto

2020-05-17T18:29:00.005-04:00

He gave out a dull laugh as if in the troughs of an opium sleep. His head fell forward and hung there like a reaching vine. Otto’s skin had grown pale yellow while his thoughts had long turned to the days when he was a school boy deep in the wilderness, masturbating to the image of belly dancers and all the girls at his school who jeered him for his desire to avoid all the other kids because of his shame of his all too thin body. Their loveless words filled his fantasies as he reached climax since abuse was the only attention, they would ever show him.

From down the hall a television echoed its bad news, from room to room. A four-alarm fire burned in an apartment building somewhere in the Bronx or was it two planes crashing into a couple of buildings, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t even tell what day it was or make out the conversations coming from the other side of the door. He was not sure if he was still alive for that matter.

In his dreams which came from the pills to help him keep the day on the other side of his eyelids, he heard a woman’s voice. It wasn’t his mother. It had been too long since he heard her speak. He forgot her voice, and her touch. Nor was it from an old girlfriend, it lacked all warmth or humanity. It was the voice of a working phone operator. “You’re moving too fast Otto. There is no escape from the bad news coming from your radio, it’s always waiting for you on the other side of the door.

The forest had become white as if some unseen storm had lifted the pigment from the world, along with its noise and static. There was no rumor of birds or wild beasts or even Otto’s breathing though he could feel his heart racing faster and faster and faster. The voice spoke once more this time from somewhere among the bare trees,

“You never should have taken things too far.”

“And the band played on,” was his only retort, not knowing what any of this meant. He was wondering if there was any meaning to this silent world where he was still young and free from the confines of the sterile smell of disinfectants which had been haunting his nose since he was committed to the ward. He once learned that dreams make for bad cinema, where is the connection to the meaning or vision of the director? Its fine for thirty minutes in dada madness, but not for a life time.

The door to his room opened and his chair started moving with its wheels squeaking as if in protest. The two nurses who had wandered in, one of them with a deep black southern accent, spoke and laughed about something Otto could not make out. Then they stopped and the one with the twang in his voice turned his attention to Otto,

“How are you today Mr. Berger? You are looking good. Looking stronger.”

Otto let out another dull laugh, “and the band played on” was all he could utter. He felt his body being lifted then slowly lowered onto into the safety of his bed. He felt the straps tightening around his wrists and ankles. The two men then disappeared, out the door. Even though he couldn’t open his eyes, Otto could tell it was day time. He could feel the warmth of the sun which shown through the windows, on his face and chest. The air in the room was stale and weighted like that of a mausoleum. When he was sure he was alone he whispered, “and the band played on.” The television from down the hall still blared, “and now sports.”

Otto ran deeper into the wilderness where even morning dares not reach.

The Grinder Monkey No Longer Dances for Change

2019-01-21T14:36:00.001-05:00

Mothers everywhere

Listen

The grinder box is growing louder

In the voice of antiquity.

Don’t you hear it over the gears of the midnight carousel.

The monkey won’t be moving from window ceil

To window ceil collecting change

So, you better teach your babes to dance

And dance well

And forget their names

Or perish by them.

The role of the new grinder monkeys

Is for those born into an already spent life.

Didn’t you know things tend to unravel at the worst time?

But when is there a good time?

After all

All the celebrations have ended.

The holidays have been cancelled this year

According to the 12 O’ clock news.

The president claims we can’t afford them

And he suggests flagellation

As a replacement to a day off.

After all we have to save for the war effort.

What war effort?

Sorry

I mean

The war swindle.

This is what happens when the doors to

Bellevue swing open

The lunatics claim this a Christian nation.

Even Christ would cringe

from such serrated adoration.

And this is why the birth you now endure

Is a celebration itself

Of turning

Your sacrifice to the mad hour

To a generation of martyrs.

To All Mothers Everywhere

2018-12-30T14:18:00.001-05:00

To all mothers

everywhere

Why do you part your legs

toward

the 21^st Centaury

Didn’t you know

That the future is our final station

Where the monkey sits and waits

To collect

For a debt that has long been owed?

And he will never be denied

payment.

That fateful stop is close now.

Didn’t you know that this train will never be slowed?

Maybe we should have planned our escape

Before the monkey smiled

Instead of wandering like dumb beasts

That serve as an exhibit on some distant safari

Under the burning glow of industry.

Yes

it gave us the TV and black lung.

And

Yes

we should be grateful

What other system allows you to own a Statesman?

Pay for the right to soil your water

Blacken someone else’s?

How else can you explain the water’s

And this century’s

Taste of curdled milk

That sits in some hoarder’s fridge

Waiting for the next great war.

Why do you offer your babes the fire?

Everything that blooms

In the forest where we once played

Is consumed

Immediately

Now a days.

On America

Which is the land of the disposable hero

And disposable victim

Where do you think your babes will land?

The hoarder?

The fool with a loser’s dream?

The second storey man

Or the industrialist who wallows in his moneyed slop

Or grows fat feeding on the blue collar?

Maybe the hero

Who will be torn apart for touching the wrong ass?

Only to fade into the gutter?

And did you think you could

Swim in this ocean of equations?

This is elemental my dear.

The only end is the shore of a negative.

The only outcome when you try to defy these waters

Is a riptide that will pull you under?

What role do you really think you have?

Finally

Under the sour winds

That blow in the coming shadow

Of the kakocracy

Nothing grows

But the desert

That brings

dry dreams of your children.

But at least their sheets are clean.

The Last Turn of the Midnight Carousel Now Available

2018-05-25T14:21:00.000-04:00

There was a bit of a misunderstanding between the publisher of my book. When she emailed that the book’s release was Thursday, I thought she meant next week. Actually, she meant last Thursday which didn’t come off as being so clear so here are a couple of links where you can buy the book. I can’t believe its finally happened. Also, it will be next month before I can do any real promoting of the work. And that is going to involve going to open mics since I don’t have the money to hold a release party. If that changes I will keep everyone up to date. And that is a huge if. For those who I owe a free copy I will email you to get your address on where to ship the book.

http://plainviewpress.net/gallery2/pages/The-Midnight-Carousel.htm

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1632100355/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1527268122&sr=1-1&keywords=forever+turn+the+midnight+carousel

Forever Turn The Midnight Carousel In Depth

2018-05-20T16:02:00.002-04:00

The Last Turn of the Midnight Carousel is my first book in 6 years and has taken several twists and turns over the course of writing it. Much like the News Factory which focused on friends and the now extinct spirit of New York city, before it became a Disney World shit hole, when it was still dirty and not so family friendly, this book had started off as an ode to all the lost people places and things which I’ve grown to miss more and more these days. But certain events forced me to change the subject of my work. Over the time that I started this collection till now I’ve had to deal with the death of loved ones some whose mental state I watched deteriorate slowly over the years.

In one case I found out about the last act of desperation by a friend, three years after the fact. The of news of her passing sent me reeling for a while until I was able to regain my footing. There are several pieces among these pages that are dedicated to her including one of the short pieces of fiction.

Then came the disaster of the 2016 election which I’m still trying to come to terms with. The only positive thing I can say about the post-election days is that I was knocked out on heavy drugs due to an operation during the swearing in of the orange low level landlord pimp who thinks of himself as a don. Everyday now, we are watching one piece after another of the advancements of our society are being flung into the abyss of provincialism and normally rational people are reacting like dumb beasts in a china factory. I understand the desire to destroy a system of economic inequality and backwards religiosity, I feel that way most of the time but to hand the shit house over to neo-fascists and turning our country into a full blown kakocracy which is where we are right now and destroying real people’s lives as well as life on this planet, to me is an act of a lunatic’s parade. These horrors of our time are also stamped on the pages of this work as well.

All of this plus more can be found in The Last Turn of the Midnight Carousel.

http://www.plainviewpress.net/gallery2/pages/The-Midnight-Carousel.htm

Forever Turn the Midnight Carousel Set To Be Released

2018-05-18T17:00:00.001-04:00

My fourth Forever Turn the Midnight Carousel is finally going to be released next week. All of the editing is finally done and just needs to be uploaded into the publish houses system. I will write more about the works this weekend.

About Forever Turn the Midnight Carousel

2018-04-22T16:42:00.003-04:00

My fourth book, Forever Turn the Midnight Carousel will be released at the end of this coming May. Over the course of the three years that it took me to write this manuscript, I was forced to move away from my lament of the death of New York City, in an existential sense, and focus more on personal losses which came by way of both the death of a beloved friend and family members. I drowned myself emotionally into most of these poems and short stories which was used as an ode to those who were lost due to either one last act of desperation or cancer. Pieces like, Behind the Heavy Metal door, was one of my attempts to humanize those who wind up in psych wards, not as victims of the outside world but rather as people who look for anyway to hold on to whatever control remains in their lives, often failing miserably. But their loses are made on their terms and their failures belong only to them. I really sought to capture the main character’s humanity in a way to avoid painting her as a mental disorder which is too easy a trap to fall into. But mostly it is with love that I wrote this story and all the other pieces which follow the same theme.

It was 2011 when I first changed course on the focus of this manuscript. As usual my frustrations of seeing the outcome of New York City being, “open for business” was the common theme of my work but when I got news of my mother’s illness the great swindle perpetrated by New York City landlords seemed millions of miles away. I started to focus my thoughts on visits to the hospitals and watching my mother lose her mind as the cancer invaded her brain. It was months afterwards that I was able to sit down and reflect on the experience and be able to make some sense out of it and put everything into words. It was also at this time that I was forced to deal with grandmother’s spiral into dementia though I was saved from having to dealing her worst impulses that sprung up due to cerebral decay, thanks to my cousin.

Forever Turn the Midnight chronicles these moments in my life along with my fervor over the disappearance of what once made New York City the place misfits would move to, to escape square America. If you are interested in pre-ordering a copy you can find it by clicking on this link.

http://www.plainviewpress.net/gallery2/pages/The-Midnight-Carousel.htm

Forever Turn The Midnight Carousel

2018-04-08T12:33:00.002-04:00

Finally, an update on my forth book, it will be out very soon, possibly as early as next month. Forever Turn the Midnight Carousal is by far and away my most personal collection. Much of it focuses on the loss of friends and family along my ongoing lament on the death of New York City. I’ve performed several of the pieces from collection, at Rimes of the Ancient Mariner and else-where. For those who are interested in getting a copy you can go to the Plainview Press website or contact me. Amazon and Barns and Nobles should also have it in their data base.

The Big Mistake

2017-07-12T11:54:00.001-04:00

It was a mistake

To test everything I know.

The fabric I trusted to hold

Tore.

What was left behind

Were empty rooms which led

To windows that framed women

Naked in their repose

As if their bodies were idols

To be worshiped

In temples of long dead religions

as if they are a still-life in an obscure

Museum

Nowhere near

Your hometown.

some became dancers

sooner or later

unaware of

The stare coming from

the phantom audience

in a Monday afternoon club.

Their names have become letters

Floating to the bottom of a sea

With millions of other names.

Its currents will guarantee you will never return.

Untitled

2017-06-07T15:46:00.000-04:00

Untitled

The Kakocracy has finally won.

Didn’t you know that?

The rats at the helm

No longer fear the rat catcher.

He was been bought a long time ago

And is nothing more than an errand boy

Or file clerk

Who knows his place.

Birth has become an act of pure brutality

as mothers deliver them to the ring.

You better learn to shadow box, kid

because some of them shadows could break your ribs

with just one shot.

The worst thing that can happen

to those who have never learned to lose

is to look up from the canvass

at the fan whirling high above

the title fight which never ends.

The horror of the unreasonable man

Is to grow lame before the final bell

And never be able to get back up again.

It is here

from money to the body

everything is owed and nothing is kept.

It’s just rent.

It’s always just rent.

Even the nameless

will pay the cost of living in a box.

Mothers!

If you love your children don’t let them be born

Not now.

Not till we drag the trickster monkey

To the guillotine.

In his right hand

Is the twenty first century

Which came on like a curse

But was delivered

As a bullet.

The only thing that will remain

are those mornings which come with an eviction notice

and a court date.

Those who survive

know the meaning

of the SRO of the heart.

At these depths

All birth is Kabuki theater.

Theater sold on the cheap.

Theater given away

Like a hot shot.

Chances are you will

Never pull that needle out.

In the wards

no angel dares to fly

not if he wants

to find his way back up

to reach the surface

once more

before the mandatory 72 hours

expires

and the man at the door hands

you back your shoes

without laces.

Either walking through the heavy metal door

or being washed out

in afterbirth

the lesson we all learn

the future

has become a torn dress

lost in a warehoused apartment

in a forgotten borough.

It was a crime committed

by a Robber Baron’s pale hand.

It was just another show for all of us to see

as if it was just a sporting event

only this time

all those who watch

are an unwilling audience.

Goodnight Rome (Spoken Word)

2017-04-18T16:10:00.001-04:00

An Open Letter

2017-04-18T15:49:00.001-04:00

My pages have become testimonies

Of nothing to say

In a state where everyone speaks

But little is ever said.

These pages have become as vast as Potter’s Field

Where every word loses their identity

And remain voiceless

In this time of static.

Every name gives way

To serial numbers

And everyone who almost won now sleep

On top of forgotten losers

Who at least owned their own exits

Which came with a kiss to the third rail.

It is a perfect escape

For those of us who don’t wish to be found

By those who bought New York

Lock stock and barrel

And forced her onto the stage

Under the strippers’ light

To dance without an ounce of rusted dignity.

Her last on going dream

to put on that black leather dress

of No Wave

and

take the El train to the last station

still in time

when the rats lived behind the walls

before they started buying each

apartment

building

with

“for rent” signs on all the doors

Designed to hide just another crime scene.

A Love Letter To No One

2017-04-18T15:45:00.000-04:00

The greatest hustler we will ever know

Is our wishful thinking

For something holy.

The deal on the table never really changes.

It has long grown old

And curdled.

But we all take it as new.

And

How can I find my balance on the legal apparatuses

Of a rat eat rat city

Which will always take the form’

Of a moneyed home.

Those of us who honed our craft

Have become exhibits in

museums of all our spent years

isolated

while the moneyed children

beautiful in their designer skin

and expensive shoes.

But their souls were left behind

On the cutting floor somewhere

Where the rats

The ones mentioned before

are free to collect all scattered things

For their unseen nests.

That is the price of advertising:

plant your heart under the floor boards

Like just another roach

Another lost

Or discarded thing

all

To avoid the pain

Knowing what it is

To turn into just another house cat

Peering out the same window

As yesterday

Knowing you will never

truly be part of the world below

Only living just behind

Drawn shades and

Dark clubs.

And me?

I continue to wait for you

To return from desperation's

unforgiving sea.

Goodnight Rome

2017-01-02T12:32:00.001-05:00

Goodnight to our Rome with all your garrisons

and your streets that have become

as loveless as empty barracks.

For you I will never weep.

After all,

your Senators

Who made the deals

To keep the last

Last

And the first bored

and lost in ennui,

govern the burning ruins

of the human city which has evicted

all the true news writers

and used the electorate as a weapon

With unforgiving recoil

Which guarantees

that

the bottom will stay at the bottom

and dance to the music of the

midnight carousel.

Now that the middleman has been cast

To the prairie grass

With his own middle cut away

His fate was decided over lunch

The legal apparatus has fallen from its hinge

Leaving only the greatest felony

Unnamed.

And who are our neighbors

When we’re sentenced to the

Four year winter hotel?

Will they be the nameless ghosts

Evicted from their bodies by those

Who are afforded the right to escape the tombs

With kept wives in cheap furs

And Upper eastside penthouses.

And in all those apartments

All the beautiful people

Wash down oxycodone with fine wine

While bitching about the junkie below.

“Send the cops to clean up the drug

Problem,” they cry.

“All addictions should come with a ‘scrip.”

This is the reason I’ve chosen the ghetto

In the city of the heart where

The original felony still hangs in the air

Thousands of years old.

That is never hand over all our true loves

To be crucified by the wolves

Who forever sniffs around my door.

Looking

To sniff around everyone’s door.

It is preferable this way

to living in a gated community

Where the news papers

The television sets

And computers

Are the only umbilical cords to the

World outside their guards watchful eye.

It takes a truly trained country

with few alternatives

to put a knife to its own throat

or hand it over

to an orange buffoon

with a poor hair cut

who lines up his bets

on what con will turn the American heart

into just another dead

theater

where it was all just the show of shows.

And when the decision is made

The worst one is chosen.

The decision has certainly been made.

For what other country

Choses a landlord so crooked

All self-respecting cons

Walk past him

Never stopping at all

For fear he will pick their pockets clean

For he is the biggest con of all,

Who

now has to do a sometimes honest man’s job.

Those he loved the least

Ignored all the papers

Who for once

Didn’t celebrate

The game of chance

But cried out

With the urgency of a siren

During an air raid

to pick the other.

While he spoke as one of the mob

He had sold of all them out

In a landlord’s wet dream.

But one desperate night soon

he can expect nothing in the end

But to stand on the stairs

Or escalator

When all your Senators approach

smiling

with drawn knives.

“Et tu Sessions?”

Whatever Happened To The Homecoming Queen? Or The Nameless Roll On With Dirty Faces

2016-12-07T15:58:00.000-05:00

Margret rolled herself around the subway station on 59^th street, near the turn styles hitting every passerby up for a quarter. She used one leg to push herself backwards in her chair, Margret’s other leg had long gone lame. It was a routine that she had come to depend on both for her livelihood and to keep herself grounded. It didn’t matter if that ground was below the streets in the sub-terrine world of the subways. She often surprised by the lack of permanence in that world. A tapestry languages from passing tourists, coming or going and all the conversations of businessmen and women about deals which she would never understand. But they all would be gone in less than moment. Before they had time to disappear, she would up to them giving her well-worn pitch, “you have a quarter or dollar so I could get something to eat?” But they all passed by without making eye contact, both liberal and conservative alike often disappeared before she was done asking for money. It was always the fresh skin young people, beautiful in their bodies who came from nameless Mid-Western towns who dropped change into her waiting hand. In-between the miasma of conversations was echoes of laughter from those who were only just visiting from Europe or the West Coast or Long Island. Then there was sermons from the Caribbean subway preachers, with the best of intentions, holding court until the next train to arrive. Soon only the screaming of kids could be heard coming from the platforms.

From time to time the police would approach her to move on.

“You don’t need to tell me where to go, I’ll be here long after your gone!”

Then she would carelessly roll on where she would greet the ridders with her pitch as they went on to harass groups of kids jumping the turnstile.

The passersby didn’t see her much of the time as she had become wallpaper in this subterranean world. She had long evolved to blend into this shadowless world where neon lights didn’t even let the smartest of the rats hide but scurry from platform to rail. But her smell had become a thing of legend, even to the cops who patrolled the station. Herr’s was of the high end Le Parfum Des Mort, (perfume of the dead) which was never afforded to the run of the mill pan handler. Only the truly sick were marked by it. It was usually the first sign of someone who gave up and were resigned to dying on the streets and being buried in a box marked by a serial number. But for Margret, she was not among their ranks. She lived in housing for the disabled somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen and had full access to a bathroom with a shower. It was just that she found it too much of a hassle to move from her chair into the tub and back again. Her neighbors had taken to burning incense to ward off the stench as if burning away evil spirits in a cathedral. But underneath the dark grayish smell along with the dirt and the years which created a mask of deep seeded lines that ran across her face like tiny caverns, one could see if they squinted just hard enough, the last signs of a homecoming queen’s beauty. It was like looking at the last remains of a once great city which was abandoned far too soon. Only the deep cracks with weeds showing through, along with bombed out buildings littered with artifacts of the proud society, was all that remained. But who was ever going to notice?

Margret reached the station at four thirty an hour before the usual rush hour crowd came flooding up the stairs. She rolled herself towards the turnstile down the through way. The on-going stream of tourists flowed past her. To her left several wooden blanks cut off a huge portion of her station. Behind the boards the noise of drilling and cracking concrete echoed loudly against the walls. She rolled on, Margret was soon greeted by a sign which was placed on the final plank reading, “coming soon pizza, ice cream and gifts for friend.” Margret frowned at the message. She knew that she could expect the police to become more aggressive as this was going to be the ongoing effort to make the city “open for business” as one former mayor put it. And her presents was bad for business. Margret finally reached her waiting spot as Lucy came stumbling past her towards the escalator with her makeshift drum. She stopped in mid-stride then turn to Margret. Alice had been a veteran of the subway for more years than she cared to remember. She went from East Harlem to Brooklyn and back again. She used her drum as a rhythmless introduction, “Hello ladies and gentlemen, here is a brand new beat something new and unique…” The faces on the trains seemed to change with the seasons. That is when, when the transients were looking up. Most of the time she only saw the tops of people’s heads in their effort to look away or simply ignore those who fell out the business of a city which has become little more than a bizarre for those who will only be just visiting. Lucy stared down on Margret with her deep black eyes, blood shot from exhaustion of days without sleep. She smiled slightly at a familiar face of a fellow tribe member. Margret looked up with great effort,

Margret: “You hear the news that they’re turning this this station to a strip mall?”

Lucy: “Yea I heard. Won’t be long before the police start kicking us back out onto the street. This is how they want to clean up the city. No one can afford the rent no more. Unless you some rich ass hole from somewhere else. You hear about Crying Sam?”

Margret: “no”

Lucy: “He was busted for sleeping at Penn Station. They beat him in the legs, all bloody with their knight sticks.”

Margret’s head dropped nodding, that she well understood the situation.

“I thought he’d be around forever. I saw him last week doing his crying act for some tourists on the east side. I think someone bought it, he got dollar bills for his effort.” She was only able to make a pathetic attempt and letting out a laugh. “Looks like they are trying to bury all of us so them tourists don’t have to look at our faces. They hope we can just melt away like that black snow every winter.”

Alice: “You make any money today?”

Margret: “Na I just got here.”

Alice looked at here with the disappointed of a resentment that can only come from hopelessness.

Alice: “Well I’m headed to St. Bart’s. I heard their running a soup kitchen over there. It’s been a while since I had a hot meal. Can’t remember the last time. And the police don’t bother you when you try to sleep in front of their doors. I haven’t slept for weeks. Can’t remember the last time. Saints look after you there, no cops can touch you. Where are you staying these days?”

Margarete: “Section 8 housing, studio apartment. Stupid landlord keeps trying to kick me out. Keeps sending his thugs to harass me, stealin my mail and messen with the elevator but its clean.”

Alice’s eyes lit up at the thought of finally being able to bathe. Maybe even getting her cloths washed. “You think I could us your shower? Its been forever since I been clean.”

Margarete: “Land lord doesn’t like me having guests. His goons spy on all of us. They use any excuse to try and kick us out.”

Alice: “ Comeon give a sista a break. Aint like I’m tryin to stay or nothing. Just need a shower and then I’m gone.”

Margarete: “I don’t know. Don’t need to go back to housing court. The judges don’t like us much. I swear their on the take. Dirty bastards don’t try to hide their hatred for us. ”

Alice: “Look I bring you something real nice if you let me use your shower. I’m going to see a friend of mine. I’ll be there less than an hour. Them dirty judges can’t kick you out for that.”

Margarete was silent for a moment for a moment, shaking her head with trepidation.

“Meet me here at 9:30. I should be done by then.”

Alice: “Thank you sista, thank you. I’ll be here.”

Alice walked quickly over to the escalators where she started to elevate to the street level and soon was gone. Margarete stared briefly at the spot where Alice had stood then started her ritual of wheeling herself from one passerby to the next giving her delivery. She would have been an American gypsy had she anywhere to go with the urgency of a nomad. But as it was, she was a child and resident of a city that slowly kills those who loved her the most yet gave eternal life to those who knew only indifference. And as she rolled on the sound of heavy machinery and shattering concrete echoed in the station which gave her pitch just a little harder to hear. With every turn of the wheel Margarete died just a little more each day. For each rejection was just another reminder of how indifferent the well dressed and mobile had become with their hardened hearts.

“Can you spare some change?”

The answers were always the same, no eye contact and no spoken answer at all, only the silent agreement that she would move on to next passerby. As the hours passed the occasional person would drop a quarter into her hand which she would pocket. The lucky days consisted of dollar bills and very few quarters or dimes. It was always preferable to get money “that make no sound when it’s in your pocket.” But those days were always rare. Those hauls allowed her to eat well if only for one night. By five thirty, the rush hour crowd came flooding up the stairs in their armies. There was never any use to hit up the first wave, no one ever made a dime out of em. They just moved swiftly for the escalator. Every time Margarete made her pitch she couldn’t escape the thought of the unnatural nature of money. Those who had it seemed bored. And the more bored they became, the more bitter they grew until the ennui settled in many a drunken eye. Those who didn’t have it just grew hungry. And when they weren’t begging, the dreamed day dreams of having plenty of money so they could sit in diners over cups of coffee and eggs.

As the hours passed and the echoes from shoes coming or down the stairs faded into the sounds of heavy machinery and passing trains Margarete’s cup became full from the occasional passerby dropping in a quarter or a dime or sometimes a penny. And as the cup became full, she poured the change into a pouch hanging from her side. From time to time someone drop her a dollar bill which meant could eat tonight. The clock in her head told her that it was nine o’clock but Alice was nowhere to be found. She rolled herself over to the escalator looked over but they only ones coming down was a group of young people in business suits. Margarete waited for a moment then decided to hit up more passers-by until Alice would arrive. Soon the crowds that had been so full earlier, had faded to straddlers. Even the sound of construction had stopped hours ago. Now that the pickings were slim, Margarete decided to leave. She rolled herself over to the elevator, up to the street level. She rolled on into the night of neon and digital lights which were sometimes purple but most of the time were colorless. When Margarete’s beauty had faded, she became nothing more than another ghost in the city of ghosts; haunting 9^th Ave, which she moved down to get home, the 59^th street station and even her own apartment. But ghosts can dream too and her dreams were always of eggs and black coffee.

Alice

When Alice arrived at the church where the soup kitchen took place, she was greeted by a line which went around the corner and was occupied by those residents of the ignored city of shallow pockets. Everyone was there, the can collectors this time without their carts, the pan handlers, the members of the “United Nergo Pizza Fund”, small time crooks and the street artist. To Alice, they were all refugees of a city which no longer had its own style. It now adopts the features of every other city in the US. Its buildings: It’s now Chicago on the Hudson River or Dallas in Astor Place and LA just off the Henry Hudson. The city of shallow pockets had become a hermit crab who wears its style like a shell of a sea snail until it out grows that shell and discards it in the mass grave yard of other shells. Of course it wasn’t always like that. Gone are tenements where bitter wives cared for roach filled apartments. And where the Poles on one block would feel nothing but resentment for the Italians on another block. And the Italians walked around with a deadly grudge towards the black kids on the neighboring street corners. And the young black youths hated the whole lot of them. Every turn was like entering the old country of some forgotten immigrant’s dream. No longer could a punk play the game of chance in The Bowery before entering a black leather, Rock’n Roll club. But what was always going to be left behind were the bitter hearts of a bitter mob with ferial souls which grew bitterer with each passing winter. Yet the pigeons walked around the littered sidewalks with a strange confidence while rats ran in and out of torn garbage bags with pieces of rotten food in their teeth.

“Aint that a mother fucka”? Asked big Ray, a black subway preacher who finally decided to take a break from trying to fill Jesus’s ministries to try a fill his stomach. Even though the question was not directed anyone in particular, one of the older can collectors, an older white man who had seen more winters than most in the line had seen years spoke up,

“What are you talken about? I don’t nuthin put a bunch of rats in dem bags. You losen it or something their buddy?”

Ray pointed at a large gray rat coming out of one the bags with pieces molded bread sticking out of its mouth,

“Those bastard rats eat all they want and we here, grown ass men have to wait in line for watery soup and stiff bread. When the last one of us is being sent to Potter’s Field that goddam rat will still being runnin around garage bags getting fat. Don’t seem right to me. God must be testing us or maybe he is still pissed at us for letting him down.”

“Maybe God don’t give a shit about us” a female voice sounded off from about four people behind him.

“It would serve all of us sinners right if he don’t give a shit about us. We don’t do nuthin for him any how”. “I’d rather be fallen then kiss any man’s ass, the voice shot back. “At least I’d be with my home girls”

Big Ray puffed out his chest, sensing he was being challenged. He was now ready to deliver his sermon. He was never going to welcomed into any church since the last one he was in, the pastor stealing from alms the treasury’s office. The pastor chased him waving around a pistol that he kept in the top drawer of his disk. The holy man fired off one shot but the bullet was inches from hitting old Ray in the ass. But now he spoke up as if at some unseen alter or standing at God’s right hand.

“look woman you ain’t fit to pick the pocket of any low ass demon, ya bitch!”

“Your not fit to piss yourself from drinking any hell wine! Probably set your own black ass on fire!”

“Look sinner woman, I’m a man of God! You are just some lonely whore paying for insulting God and his children. I’ll be at his feet when I die. I do know that”!

“You mean some goddam fool who will be found piss stained on the 6 train” another voice interjected, this one from an old time veteran of the soup kitchens, known as Doc. He was well respected once as well skilled in the operating room in some of the city’s most respected hospitals. But three mental breakdowns and whisky, along with a landlord who preyed on the weakest of any heard, sent him spiraling to the streets.

“I seen you around spouting that biblical bullshit. You are the typical Baptist.! You use the Jew’s book and don’t know what it says!”

“Fuck You Doc! You Jew ass motha fucka. You ain’t no real doctor! Everyone knows it. You are just a broken down old asshole”!

“Hey bitch leave Doc alone”. Another voice shot out. “You probably delivered your black ass into the world”.

“More like he gave up prescriptions for morphine you junkie hag!”

The crowd started to turn on Ray who deflated his chest, coming to the reality that he was in a fight he could never win. He turned around and just stared a head, swearing under his breath that he was going to shut the old man up for good “one of these days”. Alice reached the end of the line and stood silently looking at her feet. There were only low rumblings now throughout the line, sounding like several on coming storms which would never become anything more than mere threats of rain. Those whose storms had become most chaotic belonged to the untethered. Those men and women who would emerge from the loveless subways onto the loveless streets all the while sailing on seas unseen by everyone else and making deals with the ghosts who resided in untethered skulls. Their storms on their open seas had were now more than threats, they were now hurricanes which carried all sailors far beyond the reach of land. The last thing any of them could forward to were the soup kitchens with stale bread and overly watered soup on the line, they were the most vocal, yet speaking to no one at all. Alice waited on the line, feeling vaguely sick from the days without food and very little water. The sun was starting to go down as the line slowly moved along. The door to the church kept getting closer as the hunger pains became ever more present. Can collectors bitched back and forth about who was invading whose turf. It was the dirty faced versus those who smelled faintly of urine. But to Alice it was all wallpaper fore she could already taste the soup and see the faces of the stone angels who looked down from their alters with the promise of saving anyone who entered, but never delivered.

And the line moved on not unlike a timeless sea for every clock that had ever ticked away had forgotten everyone in this line, as every clock has forgotten all those who stand in soup lines as has all the board clock watchers. For it is difficult to remember anything in a go go city and where if you are assaulted by your landlord’s thug for hire, then it’s your fault for standing under his baseball bat. How is it that no one ever asked, that in the city that never sleeps so many are caught up in a dream that only leads to ruin? That those who could afford to dream do so high above the nightmares of all who are kept awake by board police officers looking for a body to process in order to get overtime. Alice had long realized that she was the only nobody who asked that question too many times to no one at all. And never seemed to reach an answer that she found satisfactory. Those around her always said the same thing, “Its God’s will.” Upon hearing this Alice felt bile build up in her throat which made her spit in disgust. What God would remember Us? After all one’s place is carved in the brain as a never reminder of what it means to drop from the wrong womb. It is tattooed deep in the flesh with fire and ink.

“We can’t afford to put no money in no donation plate”.

This is also where sellers of optimistic thinking have become the new salesman whose hands in your pockets. The moto of this city has become if your homeless then it’s your fault that the housing court judge who railroaded you used to be your landlord’s lawyer and the two still dine together. After all anyone can learn to be a skilled cut throat worshiped from one board room to the next. And any housing court judge worth his salt can learn to be a skilled filing clerk. Ray and Doc and the untethered along with most of the can collectors had disappeared into the entrance of the church. Alice was just mere feet from the door when a familiar voice sounded from behind her,

“Alice sweet Alice you still kicken around this crumby city? I thought you of all people would get out.” She turned around to see a midnight dark face smiling at her. With two yellowed eyes of addiction and cloths which hung of his thin frame in tatters, giving him the look of something between a great Moorish saint and a scarecrow. But one could have rest assured no historian or anthropologist spend a spot of ink on his life nor would any reporter from the Times spend it on his death. If he were a saint, he’d have to be contented with knowing he had become nothing more than a relic in an ascending wilderness and was sure to be forgotten.

Alice knew the voice and the face better than her own seeing she wondered the mirrorless subways and only spoke when begging for change. Henry lived, when they were both young in the apartment across from where Alice grew up. Like most neighbors, they played together as children often pretending they lived in one of the sky scrapers on Park Place or Madison. Other times they wandered around the empty lots where buildings once stood only to be replaced by rubble. But their lasting connection, the one beyond childhood came when they learned about the love of on the nod. Neither could remember who got who hooked but the prick of the syringe replaced the need for sex early on. Alice scratched her heard before yelling in sum surprise,

“You must not been looking too hard. I been down in the subways beaten my drum. You know, like the old days trying to get money for a fix? Besides you know I couldn’t go no where, my mother being sick and all. I had to take care of her. Besides it ain’t like this is a prison!” The whites of Henry’s eyes had yellowed from sickness and ruin, but his smile was still bright and hid the fact he was painfully thin with the skin on top of his head being stretched tight over his skull and his cheek bones looking as if they were about to tear through the skin.

“Oh didn’t mean nothing by it.” Was just hoping someone from the hood got out.” The smile faded from his face and soon Alice could clearly see his sunken eyes desperate, looking for any new connection.

“I didn’t think you ate anymore Henry.”

“I ain’t here to eat, I just stopped because I saw you girl. Ain’t going to touch that stall bread and shitty soup.”

He looked around as if searching for something but couldn’t remember what it was or if he lost anything at all. Henry tapped the breast pocket of his jacket with an index finger over his mouth. He started speaking in a low voice as if revealing some deep dark secret.

“What you say, want to forget about this scene? I got something here which will fill you up. I know a place where we can go.”

“Shiyt I wasn’t hungry anyway. I want to ride something that ain’t no train.”

Alice and Henry raced towards the train station on 51^st street and Lexington, ran down the steps and jumped the turnstile. They made a waiting uptown train up to East 125^th street. It was the first ride since the time of who knows when that Alice was only a passenger who didn’t need to bang her drum for a city which long became deaf to her beat along with all the drums of those who sleep under the neon lights of every subway station. Fore she now had somewhere to go a true destination which didn’t involve going through booking.

They made their way to a wooded area where the east river park had not reached. Under the last light of the day, Henry and Alice sat down as he took out his works. Henry went through the ritual of preparing the fix for two eventually tying Alice off as she waited with anticipation. No sooner did he push down the plunger, Alice felt a golden warmth throughout her body which fell slack. Henry put the end of the needle back in the bottle cap and took in the liquid which provided the promise of eternal sleep. He looked over to Alice whose head was on the wet ground, he put the needle down and took off his jacket which proved little relief from the cold when the wind blew. He then took off an over-shirt and placed it under the head of matted hair, then put his moth eaten jacket back on. He then moved back to take his shot. He hated silence of any kind when it went on for too long so he started talking to Alice with only a slight notion she would answer:

“How is your Momma?”

“She’s dead” Alice in a voice which came out as a reflex. Even as she faded into depths afforded only to the ocean of sleep, she could hear his voice which was millions of miles away, centauries in fact. But she still was able to answer as she sank.

“That’s a damn shame how she die”

“Put her head in the oven.”

Henry looked over at Alice with the thought of asking another question but knew it would not be answered. He lifted up the sleeve of his jacket then hunted for one of the last good veins in his arm until he gave up and started the search on the back of his hand. There he found one good connection left and with the skill of an artist, inserted the needle before pushing down the plunger. He took the needle out and let it drop to the ground then leaned against a tree. Henry looked up to see the stars but all he saw was the glare of the city lights, those from street lamps, neon signs and passing cars. A few stars could be seen but that was it. When he was a kid, Henry doubted that stars existed at all, thinking they were the invention of science fiction writers who need a back drop in their outer space adventures. On the eve of turning 20 Henry left town and headed to Pennsylvania while on the run with stolen junk from a local dealer. Up there he saw for the first time what he swore was every star that anyone had ever seen since the first telescope. He loved their indifference to him, standing in the middle of an open field and to all the grudges held by his boys towards a city that only offered shallow pockets with coins for the automat. None of those stars knew drudgery at all and he saw that there was no need for love or if they did, it didn’t end with one of his friends leaving his tenement feet first. Henry was most pleased with the fact that the overpaid businessman from the ivory towers of Madison Ave. or the gated communities of Long Island with all their doormen or their guards on the watch, had no more ability to pay for their affection than he. Nor did the bitter cop from Staten Island have anyway to intimate them or jail them for they were all outside the reach of the law with its enterprise built on black backs and on the shoulders of the blue collar workers who could hardly afford those collars. They were just as loveless to him as to all the others. But that night was long ago. His eyes closed and Henry was off in to the land of stars of a junk dream.

Alice drifted high above the city and all the can collectors, the subway stations, the reporters from the Times and all the indifferent faces that passed by. They all disappeared as she dissolved into a blue light where there were no cops at all. In Alice’s ears Edith Piaf’s voice rang out from a thousand brothels, and into an unseen Paris night. The sparrow of Paris’s voice rang out both live or from a record player,

“Non, je ne regrette rien!”

But Alice’s regrets ran too deep to celebrate her losses much less sing about them. She opened her eyes and noticed that she was sitting on couch with three other girls, in one of those brothels. It must have been 1919 or sometime shortly before or after, that she was sure of. All the other girls danced to Piaf’s voice, in the red light of a cobalt blue lamp which hung from the ceiling, scantily clad and drunk on cheap wine. It was after the war on a narrow street; all the men who came in, did so as ghosts, missing an arm or a foot or even an eye. One of these walking dead had bandage and surgical tape where his nose once was. He was trying to catch her eye, she wasn’t trying to catch his. In front of her the madam sat with her back to Alice, and her head down as if concentrating on the books. The noseless John handed her a cigarette which she took before getting up and walked outside. Outside, the moon let off a neon red glow, like those of the lamps inside. Inside or out there was never escape from work for there was always going to be reminder of her duties. She took a long drag off the cigarette and stared hopelessly into the red night.

“You got it good her! We keep your black ass clean, two baths a day.”

Alice turned around to see her mother dressed as the madam, and somehow older than she was the last time anyone saw the old lady. The look on her face was that of business, pure business, no love and no hate.

“You don’t have to work the trains her girl you only have to service those who are more dead than yourself. Don’t you know how to get by without beating your drum? It was here that Alice realized the old woman was speaking French but was easily understood. If you are to die alone, do it on clean sheets not among the rats!”

She sprang up from the sweet nod, still on the wooded hill. Morning had come too early it seemed, as a light snow blew in eddies under the pale gray light. Henry was gone with all the works and it was just another serrated morning that she learned again what it meant to be alone. The make shift drum sat on her lap as a reminder that it was time to get back to work.

New York's Bad Dream Part 2

2015-10-12T13:32:00.002-04:00

For Algren

2015-09-04T16:41:00.002-04:00

2015-09-04T16:39:00.001-04:00

On The Passing Of Jim Carroll

2015-09-04T16:35:00.001-04:00

The News Factory

2015-08-27T17:08:00.003-04:00

Don't forget that my third poetry book, The News Factory is still available. For those if you who are interested in what New York once was, this book is for you.
yhttp://joerussia3.wix.com/thenewsfactory

New York's Bad Dream (full poem)

2015-08-27T16:23:00.002-04:00

New York used to be a squatters town
and
a misfits town
and a union town.
This is where you could
find a cheap room at the Chelsea
or the Dexter House
with a bathroom down the hall.
Or at the Commander.
Many SROs vanished into the
remains of burnt out
warehouses once run by
“who wants to know industries”
only to succumb to the midnight storms
of “Jewish lightning”.
This was the town
where the truly strange
and burned out radicals sat at diners with
coffee stained napkins
sitting under coffee stained cups
screaming about the price of rent
or the loss of tenements under the weight of Lincoln Center.
Here punks
Rabbis
the smiling hustler
and the honest con men
and the artist
were the lower East Side
and where one could always find a cheap meal of well-cooked dumplings across from CBGB
or at the Wo Hop in China Town
where the cops and locals gathered
but where out-a-towners passed without notice.
Our liberal mayor Koch
declared that it was official policy
that City Hall would no longer worry about
the poor or the homeless
and forced them to the outer boroughs
with one stroke of a pen.
And when more cardboard communities
sprung up like cattails in a polluted heart
than bodies removed from Manhattan
or placed in Potter’s Field
the gun was handed over
to a whiney crossdressing ex-prosecutor
who was placed in the Mayor’s chair
turning the homeless into outlaws under the lights of Broadway
and the theaters were vacated
for the price of the SRO heartbeat.
City Hall unleased the Clorox tide at last
washing away the pimps
the artists
the squeegee men
the graffiti
the honest pan handler
and the grinning hustler
and the avenue corner whores
while keeping those on the Wall Street pay roll
in place
even New York was washed away
turning everything clean as Chinese marble.
For those who
never saw morning
or for those whose morning came too soon
subway diving onto the third rail
under the graffiti walls
of midtown became just another pastime.
You could always tell what borough you were in by the local baseball fans.
The Mets would find no home in the Bronx
while the Yankees received the Bronx cheer in Queens.
In Brooklyn
the Dodgers will be forever hated
or dead.
The last ticket has been punched at Ebbets Field.
This is the great indignity that came by way of
learning the true game of sports
and is passed down as a birthright
for all native Brooklynites
even those not yet born.
This indignity of a team moving from the borough
of loyal saints
to the city for fair-weather angels
which sits as a scar on the soul
of everyone who must now look up
just to find another pastime.
While Manhattan has no face for any of the teams
unless it’s the playoffs.
It is still a town of Dutch oven summers
where the concrete is hotter than the 85 degree air.
The heat keeps everyone in the subways on edge
with the fear of an undefined but always present threat.
Now this where the truly cheated out run their debts
only to be taken by another deal
from those who make a living
through 1962 World Fair promises
of a clean future only afforded
to those whose wallets are as thick as the
Sunday edition of the New York Times
while all others dream of escaping
the old processing plant
of the tombs
which delivers another gone tenant
to another landlord
like room service
churning out the nameless assholes
to the yearless avenues.
The only con greater than the subway sermons
are the real estate deals
which turn judges
into executors
tenants into the condemned
and the landlords into judges.
This has become the town
where events and places are named after artists
who could no longer live here
were they still alive.
There is Ginsberg’s Howl Festival
the Mozart café
and Poe’s restaurant.
This has never been a town
of permanence.
Each bar
each diner and each building
vanish as quick as the subway conductor’s face
into the forward tunnel
and faster than a breath
but with the sound of passing thunder.
Nothing is ever left behind.
Not the memory of what was where
or the names of those swept
out to the suburbs
or even those
who
fell out of time and onto
the subway platforms
This city has never been a morning town
New York has always been an insomniac’s town.
All of its true professionals
its night workers
have become nothing more
than just another commodity
for the wealthy squares who vanish on the other side
of the George Washington Bridge
or across the L.I.E
or
the exit to White Plains.
And from across the mid-town tunnel
from the Long Island of the cheated
the bored children of the Exodus have escaped their garrisons known as villages
and have decided to return
to the city
as if coming back
to a holy land.
The only price is their souls
which become tainted meat
for landlords
to lay their gospel of the rented truth
of the tenements.
2
What is the labor pool
but a discount bin which is rummaged through by only
the truly wealthiest fingers
looking to cheat the hopelessly cheated?
On all the professional walls
all the clocks no longer keep track of the minutes or even the hours of each day.
Instead, they measure the drudgery of the grocery cashier and the convenience store clerk alike. What ticks away on these clocks
is no longer time but the overtime hours robbed from each worker by each manager.
But despite their position,
both clerk and boss know that they will forever live on shut in hours,
where all fantasies are teenage dreams of something better
and have replaced the reality that years no longer matter in the land of the cheated;
one always flows into another and they all seem the same.
This is the town where Stonewall blew up
in the face of the NYPD
where night sticks were replaced
by high heeled shoes
that came down on the skulls
of blood thirsty cops
like the Congo rain.
Traffic,
that is the only consistency
in the cheated heart of an indifferent city.
Here in each
of these rooms
dirt and steam heat are neither friend
nor enemy
but the last things we can trust
until the next rent demand
or visit to housing court.
And all good fortune ends
when you are reduced to walking through
the street light and neon store front parade
like a moth through a flame
with no thought of coming out alive.
The power brokers
the Wall Street boys
the real estate boards
the college boards of NYU
and Columbia
and advertisement boards
are the true gods of New York
basking with their inflated egos
made of junk bonds
but sooner or later they all
get dragged down to the street level
and torn apart like so many toys
which outstayed their welcome
when the payoff becomes too great a price
or when they are recalled when the sales run dry.
But Catholic guilt
and Albany
will reflate these holy egos
while “Jewish lightning” burns down
the tenements and SROs built before the gods were born.
This is the season of crime.
3

This is the town where all its squatters
knew the good deal of the warehoused apartment building
and the art of tapping the city’s power lines.
Where rents meant nothing
and communities began to flower
in the squatter’s victory garden
while those in Saint Luke’s saw their fortunes run dry.
Sooner or later all the state’s
and the country’s radicals
found themselves pressed against
the gilded walls of Madison Ave.
And whose fists splintered the closed doors
of Park Avenue
where the true crimes take place
where the truly wealthy rig the game
for all Wall Street players
on the back of the longshoreman
long ago.
This is the town under the wary gaze from the eyes
of the suburbs of those
who always wait for the last crackhead
to die in the silent room of the wards
or the unfeeling streets.
This is where the punk rockers
flowered along the Bowery
like ragweed
in the furious winds of two minute songs.
They were the last of those whose souls would never be for sale
only to be worn out on the black snow sidewalks
and along the tattooed walls.
but the tide of the No Wave
washed over the lower east side
as Lydia Lunch’s load gun pointed at every
square heart ripe to be crushed under the weight of true poetry.
This was the town of accents
from all the old countries.
The bending of each word
by each speaker
was as if they were marked
by the touch of those boroughs
which they called a natural home.
Each block was a country
each neighborhood was a nation.
With the poetry of their accents
locals without pretention
took a number at the local delis
in the hope of scoring their corned-beef
or Pumpernickel bread.
Now they will forever be waiting in lines
with numbers that will never be called.
Their countries and nations are now gone
having been washed away by the great flood
of the west.
To find those accents in the year of our lord
2015
you have to go deep into the archives of any library
or read from the stenographer’s
reports taken down
in cases
overseen by judges for hire
owned by the truly wealthy
with the funds to white-out
American letters of discontent
in a system where the game is rigged
and the only marker for the forgotten
is a coffin with a serial number.
What we have all learned
Heaven is the tenement with no landlords at all.
For it is the landlords and building owners alike who have turned the fire hoses
on the artists born in the season of genius
and whose words and paintings
and films were as gray as the streets that they adorned
as being beautiful in its crude language
and dangerous reproach.
For it was the language
of those who looked up
not for another past time
but to the idea that the stars were
the big stage for all those children who once wore safety pins
and cable wire just to keep their paints up.
The chance of being on TV was just around the corner.
These were the writers who wrote themselves out of favor
with academia and onto the yellowed pages of forgotten books
which now collect dust in a warehouse.
While its musicians could close their eyes and listen to the sound
Of the incoming one train
Or the heavy traffic on the Henry Hudson
And hear the beat and the rhythm
of each note
of each beat
of the city’s heart.
Some finally made it big
and now live above the streets or in some other town.
Ok Miss Midler we remember you when you were still singing in bath houses
while squares were being blown
by transsexuals too low to call the cops
or to get a taxi home.
Did you ever say
That peasants are among my ranks
And I’m among theirs
Anyone who has grown used to
Moving under the eyes of indifference
Or did you sing on indifferently?
Today New York City acts as a wino in the last throes
of alcohol sickness.
Having replaced itself with
with a glossed dream of mediocrity.
You can see this dream in all the life style magazines
Which has replaced art
With banality and boredom
Of bad artists.
The city would lose itself altogether
Were it not for the stains on its clothes
Of an excess it would sooner forget.
Its new skin
Is that of a museum city
Where you can find the past
It still tries to live off of
And which outta-towners embrace
because of all the “cool books”
and movies
just as long as it never again
Leaves its display case where everything is safe.
Even the Chelsea now has been wiped clean
Of all art
And is now open to gray suit business men
And gawking European tourists.
Like any other museum city,
London
Paris
And
Chicago
New York leans heavily on its main attractions
Some borne from 911
Others which once belonged
To the wild eyed natives.
Ground zero was the great hole in the
Ground for all gawkers
From all the corners of the earth
To come and stare at slack jawed.
That hole has only grown though
Swallowing one community after another
And their place new featureless buildings
As weeds in a once proud garden.
911 turned into the greatest land grab by the world’s wealthy
Since the Trail of Tears.
The once great port city of misfits
Weirdos
Outcasts
and the truly brilliant
is now gone for good
having found an eviction notice on its door.

4

The great cliché of New York
“When this city sneezes the world gets a head cold”.
The virus is the Robber Baron class.
There is nowhere left in New York law
Or culture where their presence isn’t felt.
Along the northern wall of Lincoln center and on a banner on the front
Of the museum of natural history
David and Charles Koch’s names
Become the main attraction.
And what about the Rockefellers?
They are still the most hated family
By the old timers here.
They walked through the streets
Throwing pennies to the peasants
When everything cost a dime
And until recently
A kid caught with weed
Could get the same sentence as a murderer.
Their reach, both the Koch’s and the Rockefellers alike,
is far beyond the political world
Of this city and reaches throats
Of the good old democratic machine.

New York's Bad Dream

2015-08-27T16:19:00.003-04:00

Oh September

2015-08-27T16:16:00.001-04:00

Last Turn Of The Morning Carousel For Ever Turn The Midnight Carousel

2015-08-27T16:12:00.001-04:00