t apostrophe

recession

no more dry cleaners except for very important occasions, dress shirts go in the laundry with socks and underwear, iron each one individually.

homemade lunches, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tuna fish, need to cut down on the tuna fish for all those heavy metals.

i've gone through three pair of shoe laces on my black shoes. my black shoes have walked many miles. almost sole-less soulful black shoes.

plastic cups for spare change picked bare of quarters. shared housing with maniacs.

shave my own head over the sink, no shampoo needed.

tip the bartender one dollar. one dollar for their shitty attitude most of the time. 

two if they've got a heart which is hard to find in the hip side of brooklyn.

manager's specials in the meats aisle, portions for freezing.

onions last for days in air tight tupperware plastics tucked in the back of the refrigerator.

no more holidays, the black cadillac will have to wait a few

no more trappist beer or french wines

no filet mignon, no more hot pink dinner jackets to look like a fool in

no more full body massages,

no more korean yoga classes

no more handsome guitars or batcave electronics

no more high maintenance lovers and their parents to impress.

free meals welcome, leftovers appreciated

6 day work weeks, stolen moments for daydreaming where bosses can't see,

angel kisses cease to exist

broken noses get handed down blind sided 

dirt sandwiches in a dust bowl of raw deals

weathering all the hysterics

of the golden storm

for the poem

which will be around

long after these withered bones

are dug up by scavenger dogs

on a hot night in July.

clam bake

i walked in my slippers to the asian market.

i found the red potatoes in a basket below the large counters of fruit.

i carefully chose 5 handsome ones

"these will do" although i should have chosen 8.

8 potatoes would have filled the bottom of the pot just right.

then i went to the area where the fish were on display,

some of them still alive and swimming in unnatural pools of water, crammed in there

looking out at me.

(the smell of the salty ocean on ice and it's leaking on the linoleum floor)

i found a sack of clams and another green net tied up around a pound of mussels

the mussels were exotic and black with lost tales of sea boats in their friendly toothless grins,

the shrimp were headless and piled on each other in a tray of ice by way of frozen stowaway

hailing from morocco

i packed a dozen or so in a plastic bag and sealed it with a quick knot

the chicken broth was hard to find as i lingered down the aisle of cooking wines and sherry

there was a woman there in a black cocktail dress and silver high heels

she looked like japanese royalty in my periphery

as i searched the jars covered in chinese letters for the broth 

she stood by my side, i studied those bottles

then suddenly she ran away and i watched her run wondering "why did she run?"

she raced, as if to get away from me, high heeled empress of japan

i scared her away! queen of the cooking sauce aisle "don't run from me! i'm just looking for a can of chicken broth" but she wouldn't be the first or the last to go running away

and i watched her cover the length of asian spices,  running in 5 inch silver heels

i found what i needed down the aisle of cereal and cans of readymade soup

i picked up two salted sticks of butter and thought about my heart.

and all i needed was some vermouth 

which they didn't carry at the market

so i went next door to the liquor store with the friendly german proprietor

there was a line there and  it was crammed, 

and i saw my neighbor, the drunk old man from across the street who sits on his stoop

at night and when i get home shouts indecipherable greetings from across the way

"hey man, where can i find a bottle of vermouth?"

"look on this side because THIS side is just wine"

i picked a sweet vermouth and a cheap california white wine that was already chilled

the german gave me back change for the full amount of the two bottles

i said "hey that's bad business, you want this"

and he smiled, embarrassed at his mistake

all of those things in a pot,

those shells opening like women's legs in heat

the presence of the deep blue sea

that washes away all minutia

with it's lungs everlasting capacity for water

and the decadence of butter

and wine

over the crackle of fire and wrinkle of aluminum foil

i added my mother's peppers

and some onions

corn on the cob

as it bubbled over the open flame

and when i removed the lid

a mushroom cloud of smoke shot up into the summer sky

(swat at mosquitos

fireflies jewel the air)

the feast brought on indian visions

because the land is fertile

and the spirit wants to be full

and i am blessed to be feeding

atop the forgotten soils 

of Gitchi Manitou

The human spirit is frail. Forbidding it its vain delights will serve no purpose. Therefore, you will undoubtedly abuse yourselves and each other. While doing so, however, bear in mind that-as you have been taught-whatever you do you must do with one mind. When you eat you must be aware of each mouthful. When you breathe, each lungful. and it is the same with all else. You may gratify your flesh, but you must remain conscious of your gratification. It is not a question of savoring, as though in a hot bath. It is a question of being almost hostilely aware, of being almost painfully knowledgeable of the moment's authenticity. For this is reality.--ZEN INKLINGS, DONALD RICHIE

d in the afternoon

it's an odd sight when a pigeon doesn't flee

and it just stays there

as you approach

and you could feel it growing alarmed

but unable to fly away

so was the case one sunny afternoon

as I walked to my front door

a blue headed pigeon

with amethyst eyes

and black hole pupils

and a broken wing

perched on the railing

above my stoop

waiting to die

this little tragedy of a bird

on the clearest day of the year

learning what we will all know

in it.

it's bird mind finally

filled with wisdom

cried to me there

crossing the boundaries of species

through it's perfect circle eye

and said

"leave me here

for these last hours

to let what has happened

run it's full course

you who is healthy and young

who i've watched from above

who has full command over me

at this moment

for you too

will meet a day

when your wing will be broken

and your wish will be

to go peacefully

under a blanket of blue skies

and the glory of a sunny day"

and so i respected it's dying wishes

my wish was always to sing

i want to sing like Sinatra sang

"don't be a naughty baby, come to papa do"

in 1942 or somewhere around there

or like the king of the delta blues

under the shelter of a tin roof

while the hell hounds rested

and the rains pounded

i want to bridge the cultural divide

like Nat King Cole or James Brown

with saintly voices

that unified us in our longing

my wish was always to be blessed

with the voice of Neil Young

and his acoustic guitar

which is a cathedral

filled with stained glass windows

or Bjork over gadgets and stutters

of electricity and wind chimes

i want to sing freely and truly of my desires

like Iggy's cocaine nose

or Lou Reed's amphetamine teeth

my song longed to be the cry out

as primal as Cobain

as relentless as Chuck D

as rebellious as Bob

as cool as Joe Strummer

under your balcony i'd offer up

moonlit Leonard Cohens

and blue notes as low as Bing

and it must be true that i heard 

Beatles tunes in the womb

for they seemed so familiar

later on in my youth

my wish was always to sing

despite my decaying ears

and stifled throat

 

as was yours in the bubble

of your shower

with the radio on.

lightning selects genius

the rest of us just enjoy the tune.

^{This is an open forum blog. Open to discussion and comments. Daily readers, please feel free to leave a message...or email me at rjtroise@yahoo.com}

Thank You

RT

 

"are you sure you're not drunk?"

sometimes i feel like Serge Gainsbourg in the presence 

of a young Whitney Houston

while i sit in my window

at the detention center

and watch all the women walk by

sometimes it's wine

sometimes there's no excuse

sometimes it's nature

to sit among the flowers in the spring

and take in everything

beauty stays young

like the hiccup 

rising from the mouth 

of an old french wino

it floats on the air

like a cartoon note

desire stays young too

young and purposeful 

in a land of bees

and honey.

rain for days

your porcelain belly laid bare in a still frame

stuck in my mind

summer dressed in rain

rain for days

flowers bloom inside.

sax, trumpets and slide guitars

echo down the alleyway

so much blues in this season of doom

cotton sheets like miles of beaches

your hair like wind on fire

sweeping over the sea

drink until you are happy

sleep until you are tired

it's all you can do

while waiting to bleed

with me

i'll be coming by

with a pocketful of sand

to take you by the hand

and marry you to my dreams

three card monte

i walked into a lion's den

one night on the Boulevard de Clichy

among the neon lights of the strip shows

and shadows of tourists seeking a peek

at the exotic worlds inside

it was the devil's time

laid out in my hands

a trophy of leisure

as i stood watching a spectacle of men

hovering over a contest

of 'three card monte'

or as the french might call it

the "menage-a-card"

three of them black

a white dot marked

the illusive one

always face down

until the dealer revealed it

with a quick flip

to mostly losers

throwing down Francs and American dollars

one thing my father told me was that

"you could never win at three card monte"

and so i watched

skeptical of the con

conscious of the shills

and picked it out almost every time

until a drop of rain

fell out of Chagall's purple sky

filled with stars and clowns

and landed on the target card

marking it for good

promising a can't lose 

in the con man's game

5 more rounds i watched

wondering how nobody noticed

that splash of rain

and on the 6th round

the three cards went down

the stiff in the brown trench coat

picked a dud

the dealer cried "50/50

double or nothing"

as the rain card sat side by side

with the loser

and "sure thing" quipped up inside me

as i threw down 200 francs

and fingered the wet winner

and watched it all disappear

with a 'mexican turnover'

as swift as a magician

soapy smith's got nothing on these frenchies

i should have listened to my old man!