Inside that concrete canyon of
Deep and steely
Regrets
Where the mean streets sucked
You in, like
Aimless junkies inhaling
Crystal meth…
And the garish avenues
Spat you out
Like the night’s
Haughty sophisticates
Exhaling smoke
From French
Cigarettes… I search for
Signs of your
Cool-ass
Ghost.
Where the hustlers are
Still brawling
The busters are balling
And queens lean into
Neon-coated
Tete a tetes… and the whores
Grow bored between
Johns and quickies
And marathon sessions of
Oral sex… where
The atmosphere is
Terminally blue, I find myself
Searching for you.
Sometimes I forget
Being lost
In a dream
Where I’m
Naked, screaming
Screeching your name
Like a wildman aflame
Thru uncaring streets
As if you were still
Alive, still seeking
Your piece of fame as
A skidrow celebrity. On Broadway
No one really
'Treats you fine.'
It’s just a contrived
Little R & B
Rhyme... a convenient line
From a long ago
Drifters song. I sing
Your name
And throw my voice from
The top my
Lungs in a shameless fit of
Disorderly conduct
Terrified to confess and
Afraid to admit
You are gone… really
Gone, man. Gone
Like those
Beatniks, wasted chicks
And misfits from the 60s. Gone
Like Bird and Jupiter Ray
And those spacey tribes of
Bricked-up eyes
In the dimly-lit
Cafes of the village.
Gone…
Like the comfortably numb
Hippies and the skag-
Shooting junkies nodding
Their lives away in
Needle Park. Gone
Like those angelic–sounding
Jazzmen sparking reefer and
Hitting pristine notes. Gone
Like the cool ones...
The transitory
Doomed ones
Doping in the dark of
52nd street.
Gone… in the night’s frightful
Debris of objects, mirages,
People and things
That matter to
No one else
But me.
I refuse to let the
Demons win or pillage this
Richness of your memory
When, you remain like
Some old soul song
Only old souls sing
When high on something
Even those dealers in Harlem
No longer sling.
You are gone, now
Like afros and dashikis
And beautiful visions
Fleeting from the corner
Of my mind’s eye.
Gone… in a blink
In a final sigh...
In this stink-hole
Lost soul ghetto. Gone from
This unfabulous uptown
Plantation zoo of
Habits that wink
And nod and fidget
At you… Habits
That ache and throb,
Shake and rob…
Wild, and lie
And vomit
In macabre
Projectile
Streams of nothing
Nada, utter
Nothingness...
But the bang/crash
Echo of
Regret.
One.
copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross
