1)
Wintertime . . .
The cold is nothing like it used to be
at least, not to me.
Then again,
nothing is like the way it was
or the way it used to be
at least, not to me.
Nothing is like the way things were
back then
or back when we were young
and seeing things
As if they were brand-new
and out of the box.
I remember though
the City . . .
I remember her well
and how she was or how she never slept.
I remember my love affair
with her
or how the moonlight looked
when shining across The Hudson River
which appeared black
with reflections of the moon
dancing in the ripples
of the moving river.
The City . . .
I remember the sounds and the sights
and even the smells
that ranged from the good to the bad
I recall how the Avenues looked
and how the wild truths
walked down the streets
where the women of the night
walked with their high heels
killing the pavement with daggers
in each step, and yes, I recall
how they hardly wore anything at all.
I remember the first one I saw . . .
. . . she asked me if my balls dropped yet
she asked if I was still a virgin . . .
. . . I asked her, “do I look like a virgin?”
She told me, “You don’t even look
like you have hair on your balls yet!
I remember the lights
or the nights when
driving over the 59th Street Bridge
and how the buildings lit up
or pointed upwards
like concrete fingers
that poked the underbelly of the sky.
I remember how the adrenaline surged
and the energy that rushed
through my body.
I remember the corners and the alleys
and how the signs lit up
or the great marquis on Broadway
and yes,
I remember the less-than innocent nights
or the unspoken truths
which I hid in the folds
of my secret past.
I remember the nighttime
or how the lights dangled along the avenues
and hung beneath the streetlamps
like humming pendants
shining above the sidewalks
and lit across places like Alphabet City,
Hell’s Kitchen, and of course,
134th and Willis, and yes,
Harlem and the Crazy Eddie
dust spot on 116th.
I am of course,
no stranger to the common
and not-so-common dilemmas
that come with being a young,
but casual and defiant juvenile delinquent.
I am nowhere close to a saint
nor am I innocent and yes,
I am lucky too,
and fortunate
to be where I am.
I am certainly lucky to be where I am
as opposed to being where I should be
or where I could have been.
I often see them and then I remember
dangling, or living lifeless
standing like hanging puppets
nodding down and sinking to the ground
but ah, they never fall.
Bless them, I say
and bless their addicted lifestyle.
I often see the so-called “sick and suffering,”
and I often see the pinholes
or the track marks in their veins,
which is where they’d shove their synthetic meals
so-to-speak.
But I’ll tell you this for sure,
that fentanyl?
Fentanyl is a game changer.
And a deadly one too.
I am not someone who has the right
to judge or comment, and nor am I better
nor worse, but more,
I am only someone who “got lucky”
at least, this is what I say,
Or better, I can say that the line between
me and them is thin,
and to be clear,
no one can hold themselves
so high, or higher than anyone else
and deny who they are
or,
who they were . . .
We all have truths to hide
Some just hide them better in plain sight
is all I can say
I do not deny anything.
I am guilty too,
just fortunate.
That’s all.
2)
Spring comes and somehow
Mother Earth tells the land that,
“it’s okay,”
all things can come out from hibernation
and the color of green
can return to the trees
that stand in Central Park.
I remember laying on a hill,
and this was years ago.
The sky was blue
the winds were warm, and me,
I was young and free but old enough
to realize that days like this
need to be remembered.
I have always wanted to walk the park,
at least one day of each season
because to me,
each season is separated by a different feel,
as in the different feels that come
with winter, spring, summer, and fall.
Each season has its own story
and each story has their own chapters
and each time one chapter closes,
a new one begins, —or at least,
so I have been told.
I love this time of year, though I know
what comes next,
the heat,
the sun, and the warming of skin,
and more,
I know about the revelation of flesh
and the celebration of bodies
undressed, sweating,
and dancing wild beneath
the lights in places like the clubs we know
such as The Red Zone, or Emerald City . . .
Remember?
3)
Summertime and my mind goes back
to times when I stayed out late enough
to see the sunrise.
I remember nights,
parked in some parking lot
and laying back on the trunk
or my beat-up, blue
four-door Chevy.
I remember nights in the Hamptons
after the melees and the bullshit fights
and I remember the different randomness
that came with a few of what i call
anonymous kisses
and there I was, sifting through
the lonesome leftovers,
or sporadic luckiness of aimless romance.
I remember the feeling of being miles away
which used to make me wonder
if love could ever be real
(especially, for someone like me)
There are no ties to this
or to the past
to which I admit to the losses
in which I invested too much
or thought too often,
and I thought too hard
about how life was
as opposed to how I thought
life should be.
I do not know how life should be
at least, not truly
because if I truly knew . . .
then I would have to be truly loyal
to the way life is,
instead of being loyal the lies
about how I thought
life should be.
4)
Autumn is calling
and soon, the cooler weather
will be on deck
and the summer will take its yearly break,
until it’s time to come back
next year.
I am okay with the relinquishing heat
and I am okay with the colors of sunset
which appear like this
Sunsets in fall have always been
beautiful to me.
This is the only thing that makes me appreciate
when the sunset comes earlier
and somehow, the mad aggressions
and tensions from the summer’s heat can give way
and we can be cool again.
I have no home,
at least, not in the sense
that I mean a home, or a place to stay.
I have these things.
I am not homeless,
but yes, I am searching for my place to stay.
For now –
I have a roof above my head and
some walls to keep me in.
I have a door.
I have a few windows and a place
to clean myself or brush my teeth.
I have a kitchen
which is where I store my ammunition
or otherwise known food
and my little magical machine
which is my morning source of power
I pay my respect to this every morning.
This is machine with the tiny blue light
and the silvery blue button
that I push to cook my caffeine’s nectar
so, I praise the coffee gods
and pour my morning coffee, —and then
I can come here
to speak with you
I am
in what I call a state of mutual indifference;
whereas I am not indifferent to the world
or to the pain, but more,
I am indifferent to my so-called enemies
and I am indifferent to the anger
I have faced.
And so, I am done.
As in “finished!”
I am sitting here with you
thinking about a man
who was gunned down by an assassin
who shot and killed this man
because the assassin
accused him of promoting hate
and supposedly violence –
but wait. . .
What could be more hateful
than shooting a men in the neck
in front of his wife
and two children?
I am reaching out to you
as usual
and trying to make sense
of things that make no sense at all.
I am often too harsh
and often seeing as if
there is no light at the end of the tunnel.
And hey,
I get what it means to have enemies.
I have plenty.
I understand what it means
to dance with the devil
because he and I
go back a long way, —and, so,
I will close for now, or perhaps I should say
I will end this from my side of purgatory
I have seen so much and yet,
I have seen so little that I understand
the need to open my eyes more.
I suppose this is somewhere around
the fourth quarter of my whole life.
Therefore, the hour is later than we think.
I don’t know where I will be,
this time next year,
and I don’t know what life will look like.
I only know that season’s change
and hopefully, so can we.
I have seen enough bloodshed
to last another millennium.
I have seen grief and felt enough pain
and now, to add some color,
I think it’s best that I choose to see another sunset,
or, if you’ll have me. . .
I could use another walk through Central Park
because yes, my answer will always be this:
Yes. I do love you.
And
I’m ready when you are
Always
The Written Addiction 