97)
I love early morning drives.
I love them just before
the sunrise,
and I love how
the sun comes up from the east
which is just behind me
and I can see the sunrise mirrored
on the reflecting windows
on the eastern facades of the buildings
on the other side
of the 59th Street Bridge.
I love how I can think
yet, I can drive
and think about nothing at all,
not even the road, or the way to go
because somehow,
my body knows — but, then again,
I have been making this trip
into New York City
for years now
which only makes me trained.
I have been crossing one bridge
or another
or driving beneath one river
or another
and making it through a tunnel
for more than three decades.
See?
The City and me . . .
. . . we go way back
(like car seats).
I have seen the changes in our landscape
and I have noticed the changes in our technology.
I have seen the difference in society
and yes, I have watched our culture grow,
expand and retract, and I have seen my City
become a haven, and I have seen my City
become tainted, and I have seen her become toxic
and violent sometimes
and more than anything,
I have watched her rebuild from the damages
at ground zero,
which is where I am stationed now,
currently across the street from the pools,
which honor the names of the fallen
from the Trade Center, September 11, 2001
which is a day
that I will never forget.
I often say
I will always remember
I will never surrender
united we stand
divided we fall,
and yes, I say this
with a loyal and humble regard
for my fallen friends
who died on that day.
It is strange to me how the new generation
knows nothing about her streets
or what she means to me.
But ah
My City
I love her still.
98)
I have seen you in so many different ways
and yet, I only know you as this,
my place, my home,
my sanctuary, and whether
it was uptown
or the cobblestone streets downtown,
I will never forget the years,
or how you have been so good to me,
especially when I was lost, or scared
or too frightened to dare
to be me, or to walk alone
and be myself.
But you knew.
Somehow, you always knew about the real me,
which is why you always pushed me
to step out of my comfort zone,
at least to me,
this is how I choose to see it.
You and I know
the secrets of what makes me tick,
the stories, which no one knows
nor will anyone know
except for you –
and together, you and I know about
my feelings about rooftops
looking down at the taxis
speeding down the streets
and, of course,
you and I know about my dreams
or if anything, I can say
you and I know about the downtown readings
which I always wanted to do,
but I was never brave enough
or comfortable enough
with my voice (or my prose)
nor was I brave enough
that I could stand on stage,
microphone in front of me
dark stage, except for the spotlight
which is beaming on me
and bleeding a bright shade of whiteness
that sort of interacts
with pillars of cigarette smoke
to make the mood seem more
poetic,
dark, or misty,
or maybe even meaningful, and no,
I never dared
I never gave it a shot,
to pull a trick
and stand on stage
to please the crowd
or say something crafty,
or beautiful enough
to make people think.
I never had the chance to see my curtain rise. . .
I never dared to stand at the mic and share
the second poem I wrote
based on the way I felt
about what it would be like
when I met you.
I never got the chance to share
how your breath exists, only in mine,
and holding the motions of the sun
which then becomes the moon;
I am aligned by shafts of light
that beam upon you
and yet, you leave shadows on them.
I never had the chance to stand on stage
and say how I was created
and designed
for nothing else
and for no one
other than you –
because only you
or this
can define me
as yours, to which I am
yours –
and so,
no one can define me
nor can anyone distract me
or steal my attention
away from you.
Swift breezes, like the ones
I think about
with a rainbow’s enchantment
and bringing about the sunshine
after a flash storm
passes by.
The rain goes and new light
comes to awaken me, as if to say,
the sun is out now
to dry the tears
and regain the dreams
to which, someday, I swear it,
I will have you
all to myself.
99)
I have not walked alone
at night
in a long time.
But no,
it wasn’t so long ago
that I chose to sneak away from the crowd
and move away from the loud noises
or find myself alone
in the eagerness to go, be, or do
without the need to satisfy
the opinions of someone else’s need
or opinion.
I remember –
Sneaking away
walking along the Westside
meanwhile
the moon was full
and the Hudson River looked black
with bits of moonlight
reflecting and dancing in the ripples
of the moving water, and me?
I was a refugee and social casualty
and me, I was looking for a remedy
to mask the threats of cancellation
as called upon by the culture police,
to which no one ever gave them a badge
but, they, themselves are somehow self-appointed
like gods of no creation
and somehow, the culture police
chose to deputized themselves
and be cruel
without seeing the irony
or hypocrisy, and so,
without an education,
I laugh at them
the culture police
as they stand at their podiums
and repeat the theories
that were reported by the news
so now,
the social parrots can repeat
the news, without question
and pass off someone else’s point
as if this was their own.
I need to get away from this sometimes,
which I do,
by staying quiet.
100)
I am downtown now
watching the sun come up
which is more apparent
at an earlier hour
which means springtime
is about to return.
I cannot say that all memories are correct
or accurate
or bad
or pleasurable.
However, I can say that life changes
and so does our relationship
with who we remember,
or how we remember them
and the when and the why
and all the details in between
are all subject to change.
Everything is bound to change,
just like the landscape of my town
or the faces of buildings
in New York City are all different to me now;
no matter what, where, why, or when,
I will always remember walking past the theater
where they used to show the movie RENT as a play,
off Broadway –
and yes,
I was there, and yes,
I saw the play
and
my most memorable moment
from the play was this:
525,600 minutes.
That’s 365 days to you and me,
and to the man who wrote the play,
or to the man who died the night before
his opening night,
I realize that every minute counts,
and so does a year in our life.
Jonathan Larson . . .
a hero
(to me).
I have spent decades
speaking with people who beg to die
and meanwhile
I think about Jonathon Larson,
a hero of mine,
who never knew me,
never knew I existed
and maybe he wouldn’t have cared
or liked me, but nevertheless,
this man did inspire me.
I am not so beautiful
as him, but
I am in the rough
and raw
and yearning and striving
and sometimes,
I am afraid
that I will never finish
or pull my trick
or see my dreams come to fruition
or complete what I set out to do,
and yes,
there are times when
I look upwards at the sky.
I find myself shaking,
I find myself lost,
or I find that I am either misplaced
or perhaps I am only learning,
much like a child who believes in fairytales,
only, I have yet to find my Neverland
or my dream
which is about to come true.
I have sepnt decades speaking to people
at the end of their rope,
or allowing myself the humbleness
to identify or relate
and I have listened to those who pleaded
to bring on the end — and yet,
there are times
when I forget the card I received from an old friend
named Kenny.
Kenny told me –
it took me dying to find out what it means to live.
That was back in 1989 . . .
How do I measure the moments of my life?
How do I stand next to the fire of love
and keep the cold from touching my back?
How do I keep the past where it is
or stop the imaginary boogeyman beneath the bed
to keep from eating my feet?
Let me breathe, I say.
Let me see the sun come up.
Let me go, I say too,
and let the past be where it is supposed to be,
which is behind me
because there are only 525,600 minutes in one year,
and while I was never friends with Mr. Larson,
I’m sure he wishes for just one more minute
or one more day or another cup of coffee
with his friends or another night
so he could see his curtain go up
and watch the crowd be amazed by his creation.
And to you . . .
. . .my love,
please know that my insanity
is not contagious
nor am I dangerous
but just frightened
and damaged
and somehow,
endlessly and hopelessly
yours
but more, I am a man in love
and afraid
or should I say petrified
that on the day of my arrival
and just before I’ve learned to master my trick,
the curtain will fail to rise
and I won’t be able
to answer the call.
101)
Take me away,
and let me rest in the palm
of God the Father
or rest in the beard
like gray clouds in a dream,
and sweep me away
like an infant
coddled in the cradle
of safe, protected love.
Let me feel this way,
soft and easy,
or perhaps I should say weightless
without the heaviness or burdened resentment
which is of no fault,
at least not by anyone else.
Let me rock in the seas of your mighty heart
my dear, sweet Mother Earth
and let your bosom console me
and let me dream, or let me rest
or let me rid the fears or the rage
that keeps me pent
and let me find peace.
I am, of course, the seed of a restless soul
broken in more ways than one
and working to recover.
Therefore,
let me have this one thing,
just this one thing,
which to me is everything
and let me see this for what it is
and let me laugh and smile
and above all,
let me dance with her
just for a while
with all of my heart
and with all of my soul
and should this be love
then let this be mine,
let this be my love
and no one else’s.
Let me have this
for this life
into the next
because dear Mother,
I have waited for lifetimes
to be hers
and with all of my heart,
I hope that she has waited too
just to be with me.
I don’t want to waste away
alone
I don’t want the sun from the east
to change
nor do I want to miss the west
when the sun goes down –
There are currently an estimated
457,920 minutes left in this year –
That leaves us 318 days, so
my next question is
what are we going to do about this
together?
The Written Addiction 