Two different meanings
kill the time or fill the time
with different outcomes
***
And like survivors
minds burn and burn and burn, too
Without burning out
What you don’t mean can’t burn you. – mh clay
The dance was on the second floor. The leader played sax and flute. He brought along a drummer, bass player, keyboard man, and guitarist. All the players shared the singing responsibilities. They were each capable of doing lead and background harmony. This was to be an easy gig because a lot of speeches and award-bestowing rituals for gang members, for whom the dance was …
Mick went out that evening. There was the Purity Restaurant over on 7th Street and 7th Avenue. Mick was a little down on his luck, figured 7, 11…dice, numbers like that. The Purity used to be owned by a couple of Greeks and is now owned by a couple of Italians. It also relocated from Union and 7th recently in 2005 to 7th and …
maybe
i shouldn’t
walk on
it—
it might
ruin
the
comfortable
look—
of the room!
If you’d look good, then walk you should(n’t). – mh clay
in the neighborhood
now around 34th street
and park avenue
a bronze statue of an artist
with an easel right before a little park.
inside granite walls, long
wood-slatted
green benches
shrubbery, trees
a pond.
i relax and write.
in the middle
of lonely
manhattan.
now empty stores
large plate-glass-windowed
restaurants
with nervous, floor-pacing
owners in white shirts.
in early morning
the park was always lonely
and quiet before this—
when that was a good thing.
Calm, by context, turned to discontent. – mh clay
i guess the payoff
at any level
is still worth
the effort.
and the outcome
when the editors
shun you
while encouraging.
it’s just that hit!
the addicts
search and seek
thieves risk
returned gunfire.
all you’ve got to do
is sit in early
morning light
uncertain, alone
and go on.
i used to pile
glass ashtrays high
with cigarette buts
of various kinds.
now i just wait
for the sun
and some light
inside.
Just a little light to write… right. – mh clay
junkies connect with their drug.
pushers connect with their junkies.
the connection’s so good,
the dopers even call the pushers
Mama.
and alkies connect with their elixir
drunk sometimes from golden goblets.
sales pitchers connect [when they score] with the buyers
and lovers connect majestically
in the moonlight.
the writers connect with
the word on the page
and the fiber optics cables connect
two callers wanting to speak in a lonely twilight hour.
the sadist & masochist each connect
with the soul of the other
and the sailors connect to
and marry the sea.
the mystic connects with god
and that’s a big one. so’s
the little dot on the ‘i’
and the period that closes this sentence.
the jamaicans call that a full stop.
it’s the ‘whoa!’ for the horse,
the power brake for the car.
they know the power of a sentence.
to use a word like that.
the ignition key goes off.
the power soars again with a click.
reading a whole page can thus
be exhausting and exhilarating,
and even attacking a single
sentence can blind you.
that’s what lovers of words know.
Fantastic fixxxxx (more, Mama!) – mh clay
nyc – if you can picture that 1950’s scene
with larry rivers painting,
david anram on sax,
kerouac writing, allen ginsberg prancing.
the gray buildings, the gray new york,
the creaking dawn, the late-night diner conversations,
burroughs, corso, huncke, gangsters bars
on the west side, jack and bill strolling on 8th avenue only
when they walked on the wild west side
in mad, strange talk.
you wonder about that, sitting here,
the myth of the rainy night of kerouac’s lowell,
that mythic scene and
what it lets you imagine in your head, feel
in your body; the culture of the revolutionary art world
then.
tenor men blowing in abandoned buildings,
shooting junk, mingus, ahmad jamal,
charlie parker,
grady tate, monk, wes, winton kelly and that tinkling piano.
of course, of course it was a crest of culture unparalleled in
many respects anywhere.
it lives today, underground, overground, in my ears this
morning, in my eyes
i can tell you
they were building colossal buildings back there,
pyramids equal to the egyptians, monuments, tombs –
trees that would last forever.
Yes, in our ears, too. Listening, building… – mh clay
i used to try
to kill time
trying to write—
bending the
sentences
back and forth— hoping
to straighten
them out—
but they
would not bend,
pretending
i was meaningfully
doing something—
sweating
grunting
in hot pursuit
of a writing goal—
it eased the
guilt of
spending
meaningless time—
but i wasn’t
really past that—
still it kept me
in the game
blindly slugging
it out with the words—
later i learned
to get out of their way
they seemed to have
an urgency of their own—
they think quite well
as long as i’m there
i didn’t need
to be such a
bully but i did
have to show up
they liked me
giving them space
like most living things.
Yes! You gotta show up, then get out of the way. – mh clay
i took off from work
one day
for a therapy session
the train took off late
from the station.
it was a winter’s day
and i took off my coat
and i took off
my hat and
i took off my gloves
in his office
and i took off my shoes
(as it was freudian therapy)
and lay on a couch
facing a gray wall
and a clear
window’s view of
apartment houses
in chelsea, new york
and i began
taking off
my mask.
A solitary striptease for Sigmund, only. – mh clay
