1)
March 2024
Yesterday—
It was nice to see the city in the sunlight.
It was nice to see the hint of spring
which should be here soon,
and soon enough, the great thaw will take place
and once more,
we can feel the warmth on our skin
and feel alive.
I have to say though,
it amazes me
how the oddness of a new introduction
can be so familiar,
as if strangers were actually long lost relatives,
or like old friends who we never met,
or perhaps they are simply members
from an adjacent
or a different tribe,
who somehow understand
that life is very real and yes,
life happens to everybody.
~
I am so very small, which is fine to say
and in the grand scheme of it all,
we are all so tiny,
like random particles, or matters of dust
or like atoms, infinitely smaller —
we are all and nothing
and equally, we are part of something so huge
but we are nothing more than a subjective pattern,
a way of thinking, and a life
or a speck, or a drop in the pool
of a never ending universe.
It is easy to lose oneself in
your own mind, or it is easy to lose oneself
to our own ways of thinking
and it is easy to lose
to our own belief systems,
which again, this is all subjective,
and dare I say this both cautiously
and with all humility
we are all too lost in our own concepts of truth
which, again, there’s only one truth—anything else
is only opinion
And ah, opinions . . .
Everybody has them
2)
Circa 1989
For the record,
I was not supposed to live this long.
Better yet, for the record,
I was not supposed to live at all.
Yet, despite the odds and the predictions . . .
Here I am,
It is crazy to me, or wild, more than ever
and yet, there was an oddity of calmness
there, in the devil’s chamber.
Tiny infants are weeping
somewhere north of the basement
when, in the meantime, stigmatized lunatics
found their way out of the atmosphere.
Tiny boulders of white powdered lies
cremate the soul, incinerated in glass pipes
or obliterated, by such an insane heat; thus,
vanished under the white flame
and vaporized in such a cool heat
that numbs the mind, and yes,
this was blast-off time.
So high . . .
The mind lifts and the chemical
removes weight from the spine,
as if to be emotionally castrated
by a chemical that freezes the mind.
It is dark in this dungeon,
which is a place where I have been before;
where no light penetrates
the shaded windows
and where threats of intrusion
are hidden from the police
to avoid interruption,
and somewhere off-center, or not too far away
switch-hitting euphoria’s
offered a way to reverse the polarity,
or as if to say,
to switch from high to low,
or from fast to slow and, of course,
with abandoned hope,
all ye who entered,
so goes the dope nod remedies,
to my quick-fix
and momentary cures.
I swear though,
what amazed me the most
was the depth of despair and how, still,
there was beauty in the air, outside
by Willis and 134th.
It amazed me how grace can seep its way in
even in desperate places, like a crack house,
or a dope den, and still
the heavens can show beauty,
like the way sunlight came down
or hit the pavement
or how the gold touched the buildings around us
in the summertime afternoon,
or how the grace of color, like orange
with hints of purple,
as if this is something only the sunset could be in summertime,
and how this moment of beauty,
regardless of the ugly surrounding;
the heavens lent its hue of color
against the brownstones
—or even in the warzones, even where hell lives,
still, it was wild and surreal to see
how the heavens could allow
for a moment of prosperity
even at a time when nothing was prosperous.
All else was dangerous—and yet,
I felt the sunlight more than the pinprick
and the warmth.
I felt this more than the burn marks on my lips
which are a tell-tale sign or mark of shame
from the glass pipe, and those who know . . .
Trust me, they know this all too well,
3)
If you would have told me,
I would have never believed you.
If you would have told anyone who knew me,
I doubt that they would believe you either.
Yet,
it is true.
This is me.
I saw you all yesterday, young, hopeful,
and equally stained from old triggers of life
and the ricocheted moments
that no one ever asks for, yet
life has dealt us all a hand—and no,
not everyone is carrying pocket aces
or otherwise, a winning hand.
But either way,
we can’t just fold.
No
We have to play this out,
even if we lose
(so-to-speak).
I am envisioning them now—the students of all ages,
the kids in the class,
the women, the young men,
and the people who,
for whatever reason,
they chose me to talk to—
They chose my lecture
to come out with their truth.
I am humbled and I am healed
and I am in awe, and grateful,
truly as ever,
in all humility,
I am overwhelmed with admiration,
and equally, I am so proud to say that I was there
To see them . . .
None of this is about me or my journey.
I am nothing more than an older and weary traveler.
I listen though.
I can offer an idea or two
or act as a reference,
and in the middle of my spin around the classroom
I looked to notice
how there was nothing ugly in the room.
I heard hope.
I saw reflections of truth and heard
from people who yearned to help
because to them, this was as personal to them
as it is to me.
I am often upset and offended by what I see.
It is a common thing to see the coldness
and common cruelties, to which
it is sad to see how far we have drifted apart
or, how callous we have become.
But you . . .
You, the class of which I met
and you, the people who will change lives;
you are my brand-new heroes
fresh from the package
and about to go out
and change the world.
4)
Better than it is to see the sunlight on my city
or more valuable than hearing music
come from the Metropolitan Opera House
over by Lincoln Center,
or better than a sunset dance
outdoors in July when the city is alive in such a different way
and more than any of this
is the idea that hope is far brighter
than the cloudy days
or the times when life is hard.
Better than when I saw the world from a new point of view
or more than my appreciation for the Downtown scene,
or my regard for you, Jim, or Mr. Carroll;
I am finding that life is really such a profound experience
and that you, in more ways than you imagined
have inspired me
as well as comforted my art
by allowing me the understanding
that I can have imperfections,
which somehow make me pure.
Your art has not been lost nor forgotten;
however, I can see why I was inspired by you,
or worried that perhaps—maybe I lost my edge,
or that I wasn’t “tough” or sharp
or cool enough to pull off a sharkskin suit,
like you said . . .
or maybe I was edgeless, or somehow
I was not good enough and anything
created by me was either dull
or artless,
or uninteresting.
I want to shine though.
I want to be bright and brilliant.
I want to have a glow
and be someone beautiful.
I am waiting for when the summer comes along
and our side of the globe tips closer to the sun.
I am waiting for the warmer days,
like when the snappers run by the piers
in late August.
I want to relay my appreciation
so I can relive parts of my purity
and share this with someone I love,
namely her.
I would have never believed that this could be me.
Then again,
I would have never believed
that I could become anything
without her.
The Written Addiction 