america is unkind to its heroes
few streets with plaques
few obscure country rds renamed
i being ignorant historian
will not even bother to name even one
used to be things used to be
that way
now this –
bodies cut up for dwellings
strangled heads placed beneath sinks
i could sing all day about the passing storm
"Blue skies smilin' at me…nuthin' but blue skies
do i see…" dadadadadadadadadadadadada
da da dada the things inherited by our mutant genes
miscellany why hath thou forsaken me ..... tiny explorations of the horizon
the way the wind pronounces its name body bags filled with discarded riches
someone's life in a frame lying by the curb a wedding of empty souls
speed limping along as it always does at war's end
overweight freedom seekers talking in a barely discernable language
my language the wind announcing its coming
the 20th century being over, he, once friend, dick head that he is, wears his self importance
as if it were a nose ring worn by a very spoiled "adult"
as always i am too late to install a second line
memory being what it is i forget almost as soon as i invent
the price inventory pays as the process of exclusion widens
with every closing gap i confess i will never be a hero
hopefully never a head beneath a sink
the science of flight was never meant for me
channel changer is all i know
negative thoughts are toxic not moral she says. i pray i will never become inventory
can i invite you to my place some time? you can question my behavior all you like.
it's not a moral thing really it's not. it's just apocalyptic pigeon on a lamp post.
the smell of rising dust. the way downpours happen & how puddles are avoided during the aftermath.
go west go east the air is always in transit bodies rarely collide in this oasis.
this street that bears the name of season & water. heroes in their own right.
puddles quickly drying. name, friend & coffee smell. i don't think this cup has a bottom.
this shoulder is an altar for the sky.
o camelot accursed camelot moonless hazy midnite haze
like Willie shoeless in front of the church
homeless all he owned taken in the shelter moonless afternoon
"god bless you and your family" winged angel
camelot cursed america the colonized country the chains of europa still binding
Willie listening to the last of his voice asking – begging
Please i am a colonized country have only one leg left
colonized country
nurtured by blackguards & bootleggers
who only wanted to emulate those they broke free of
there's nothing better than being @ the center
descending like a hard rock into a perilous sea
forging onward forging a life
while making copy after copy of the ideals of others
somewhere between the red zone & the museum
the peach tree is still the peach tree
the kiwi remote & flightless
still blindly forages for grubs on a hazy moonless night
with only its keen sense of smell to guide it
hi or low energy ebbs & flows
a water of little choice to & from the port
the ride made easier somehow
by the faces tattooed to the windows
Willie's out there somewhere carrying his library through camelot cursed & colonized & free
i cover my eyes to protect them from his stare
cover my ass to protect it from the piper
– such false hope –
i expend 70% of my energy worrying about the other guy. 30% wondering why.
sure, time is borrowed & the mortgage payments are endless.
the wise daughter extracted payments from his patients in the form of their talent
then they died or were abandoned – here have another Painting –
thank you Willie but i think i'll take your shoes instead or perhaps the other leg
it's a nice day for table turning. a fine afternoon to argue over a seat.
magoo was young when i met him.
he was still young when he died.
to many gotti was a good guy.
if you're a generous murderer you're a good guy.
if you're a stingy commoner you're not.
puccini was a womanizer who lived the good life.
he smoked 3 packs a day & died of throat cancer
at 65.
gotti died of throat cancer at 61.
he was a generous murderer.
magoo was a nice kid. he took lots of drugs.
once when high on acid he went nuts, took off his clothes
& crashed thru the gate of my store.
the impact was so strong that it shattered the glass.
we took him into the back room & placed him on a makeshift bed
where he squirmed & yabbered. i stayed close to him.
when the cops arrived they attempted to make him talk
& when i saw them wield their billyclubs to strike him
i stepped in to make sure they wouldn't.
finally the ambulance came
& they took him away
i lied & said i was not sure what drug he was on
tho i knew it was blue barrel acid that
he had gotten from me
& was dealing for me
& just couldn't help eating too much of
( like i did when i bought it. )
sometimes i think that it's better to be blacklisted
than ignored.
& lately i think that the shock of each moment
is in still being alive.
i heard burton say that in the movie BOOM tonite
& what a bad movie it was.
all that tennessee williams drugged out fag hag stuff.
wasted woman needs too much love. needs no one. needs needs needs
needs needs. & christ comes along in the guise of a gigolo poet
to comfort the dying beauty.
& to rob her of her soul
but not her diamonds as was first suspected.
then
BOOM
the mean bitch dies in his arms as he relieves her of her gold
so as to make her journey to the next world
that much lighter. he then tosses the jewels into the raging sea.
he was being humane in a roguish sort of way
tho as liz had said earlier in the film
"to be inhumane or humane is not for humans to decide."
yet even with all this great story line
the great director the fabulous locale
& all these bizarre characters
including the ex-thug midget bodyguard
who controlled the vicious dogs
& the aging out-of-the-closet Noel Coward
this was one of the worst films i have ever seen.
shortly after that incident
magoo was found dead in his bedroom
˝ on the bed ˝ off
a victim as the news would have put it of an apparent drug overdose.
it was the first wake i ever attended magoo being irish & all.
it was an open casket & we paraded solemnly by him in the funeral home
to sneak our last looks.
he was all dressed up in a suit & tie not at all like magoo
& as i passed with my long hair long beard
sandals & dungarees
i bent down & planted a kiss on his oh so icy forehead
to the shock of all present.
since then i've kissed a lot of icy foreheads
& have begun to realize that we do not just pass thru life
but live it.
are it.
& that the shock of every moment is in still being alive.
& that no matter what trials we may go thru
what tragedies we must endure
a generous murderer
will always be a good guy to some.
Steven Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn, New York sometime after the last Big War and before lots of useless little wars...he has been writing poetry since before then and has always...he is basically self-taught...his great loves and influences are the Beats, Blake, Kafka, Camus, Harpo, surreal and abstract painting and music......especially jazz and so-called "Avante Guarde" or "FREE" jazz. Two key elements in his poetry are spontaneity and the idea of transformation rather than description with a preference toward non-linear, non-narrative though. He resides in Manhattan where he has lived for the past 30 years.