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With the low realities that shine and turn bright on the boardwalk, with a wine dark sea and the clouds moving along the rotten, wooden boards that gleam and hypnotize the unprepared. a revelation at dusk with the rhythms of the shadows and the middle-class families looking for refuge. the outrageous becomes the every day. you never see the same thing twice. the fleeting flowers of neon and dingy formulas open wide the gaps of meaning. the circus is in full form. the faces of plastic happiness and the cold struggle change and shift, as tourists flock to the disturbed excitement. the glassy eyed, bedraggled, hard on the luck types stand to the side and watch the charade. the laughter in trimmed-cut suits into the breath of fate, type game from glistening doors, a belly full of free drinks, and not a cent to the name. smiles. kids dance and sing for the buck. fortune tellers call out into eternity for a piece of that dollar. "come get a glimpse of the future, all is told, nothing left to chance." come see the silver menace. the intertwined of the revolving mirror. "the first reading is free." the brown torn jacket, loose lying pants, and wild magnetic hair stumbles into and out of the noxious crowd. full of glee and turmoil. the gusts from the wine dark sea fire into their faces. expressions unlike mannequins. harlequins of the night. the dispossessed of the carnival. the fear removes the impermanence of retired old tenement blocks and ghosts of calamities past. born in the morning of the railroad, dead to the night of the desert strip. an endless cycle of the jovial clowns and the trashed out beaches. the way humanity burns. he sits on a black iron bench, striped of stained paint and the barnacles from the salt water, in the middle of the golden boardwalk. he attempts to shake his head out of the malaise. his thoughts warped. corn dogs. lemonade. pizza. the ferris wheel and the roller coaster follow like a forgotten snake out into the cool, night breeze. i need another drink. i need to stabilize.
And the greek place down the way, got that little bar with the little old man, that good stuff. the burst out hair leans to the rail of the walk, the sand blows onto his shoes, and knocks into his swollen face. couples embrace. families argue and laugh, underneath the traveling circus subdued lights. the low down sleep on benches and drink from large, dirty cups. the preachers rail and polemic into the open flowing air. a duo of korean-arabic street clown sages bounce freestyle off each other. "and it's like this ya'll and a matter of fact, captive we were, the righteous were taught, by the meaningless and the bankrupt, up in these straight gutters, falling, and the cash keeps risin, like cream to the froth." the hard melodies of a small boom box creates a crowd. the younger of the duo spins on his heels, and raises his arms. high. so high you could touch the bent stars in the elliptical gray sky overhead held in the wine dark of blowing sea and the shaded lights from the casino and the temple, and break the carefree tension and eat the relentless small pieces. 24 hrs a day. after the bench and the rail, the downtrodden drunk from the hotel lounge, to the athenian palace, strung out by a moped race track, a basketball trickster game, a tattoo parlor, various sinister and unforgiving fortune tellers, italian sausage, cotton candy, ice cream stands where displaced croatians talk amongst themselves. an old beach hotel stranded by destitute buildings, men in dark suits from the TAJ MAHAL, young impresarios in large groups with baggy clothing and translucent rings — young girls with brown hair and innocence, hang on their shoulders, an old man in wheelchair with a white bucket and a sign that reads "anything you can give would be much appreciated, i need the help" his expression is lost, no awareness of the sideshow that plays itself out in the front and behind, a family resides on a white table with white chairs gulping down pizza and corn dogs as the children chase themselves into a dizzy tangle, as the man stumbles into the augmented, timeless place of the poor zeus where gyros and souvlaki and ouzo are exchanged over the counter top. a youthful grecian daughter, like the tones of a starved aphrodite, sweeps the floor and speaks quickly to her older, soft wrinkled father — a bald head — stained apron tied around the back, a couple of dark haired confident young men take the orders and dish out the drinks, as the father in belated movements whirls and jerks, he talks with his everyday customers and the new ones which come and go like clockwork, or like the prophecies of delphi, dying olive trees, or the oracle of the scooters zipping through the narrow athenian alley and ways.
Ye of whom the bell rings, as the door opens and the wind off the isolation of the sand. "ayye" the servers with bushy eyebrows call out in a stern manner. the tall blown hair and the rolled out jacket nods his head and calls out "aaaayyyye" and takes a seat on a red, plastic stool next to a cobalt counter. the light hurts his eyes. black and white, old school pictures are plastered on the wall, laminated dollar bills including signatures, and rows and rows of various alcohol bottles stretch to the back of the place. more red tables and chairs staggered in circles away from the bar and the grill. the old man with a baldhead talks in loud boisterous gestures to another old friend who wears a gray fedora with a feather, a brown suit, and large spectacles. " i do what a can, who can say, i think i've been doing this too long" his arms wave and spin around. he puffs out his chest. the older gentlemen at the bar narrows his wrinkled gray face and pinches his chin. " i think you should give it some time. the police know nothing of your situation. give it some time." the old man with the bald, wrinkles walks over to the downcast in the baggy clothing who stares into the bottles. "oh, my friend, how have you been doing? i haven't seen you in a while." the burdened man looks up and gives a weak grin. "whatsup, dollar bill, i see you still shining that head, and lookin clean, you know i was going to come back." the baldhead stands at attention. " you like the look, been like this for fifty years now, can't change because of you. but, what you want - some cold beer, maybe something else? i know you're a man of precise taste, or any taste." laughing to himself. "you know me dollar bill, give me that whiskey sour. you know that's my drink! — come on, dollar bill." he runs his hands through his wind blown hair. " i know, i know, you know in this old age, one forgets, one forgets." as the chill wind from off the boardwalk move with the faded, bright lights and the gray dark sea, the old man lays his hand on the broom behind the bar and looks through the window and he feels his wrinkled, soft face.
Ray currently resides in the suburban shithole known as Atlanta. It's not that bad, if you get into the city and away from the traffic. Check out his blog at http://mexicoblues.livejournal.com/.