The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Odessa's
By J. Reich
QuailBellMagazine.com How long before completely catatonic before you just lose it from all the unholy phony-baloney liar hypocrites of existence? When you lose your whole support system or never really ever had one to begin with & finally at last vanish into the matchstick fable & folklore spirit of condensation?
Well I’m gonna tell you; I’m gonna first
get myself one of those combination platters & plunk myself down at Odessa’s Diner on Avenue B & 7th downing blintzes & kielbasa & stuffed cabbage, while the hustler dope addict adolescent delinquent keeps on ducking in & out, splitting, ditching, running in out on his old man to cop his fix to try & fix all those feelings of feeling inadequate, consistently lied to & cheated & manipulated & betrayed & taken advantage & trying to make sense of all those mixed-message mangled-mind-dead mixed-up bullshit & old timer resigned to learning to have to accept it & looks like his face has been stretched from Hell to Heaven like some old pale-gray slow- death blank newsprint tenement which has finally caught up with him & can no longer pawn or pass the buck to some secret inadequate art of rationalization or Freudian recommendation favor owed to him, wheel & deal blackmail bribe ultimatum of psychotropic medication, while all that’s left is son’s skeleton & raw nerves & paroxysms of built-up & buried explosions, carefully planned quips & contradictions, instant grati/fictitions & confessions & condemnations, consistent broken promises, addictions, desertions & abandonments, those exits & entrances! Exits & entrances! Exits & entrances! Existence a series of ghostly exits & entrances! Cigarette & coffee wishes, broken record histrionics, broken mechanical, sad machinations, the broken tooth women & pretty young Ukrainian waitresses, old eccentric dramatic homosexuals with their seductive, sarcastic, corncob comic strip smiles, sitting solitary style at their tables, talking up a storm, eyes spinning around counter-clockwise going through the routines & rituals of demonstratively pointing at menus & probing about side dishes & specials, then settling for their traditional Greek salad & afternoon cocktail, while skittering autumnal leaves come tumbling into windswept doors & secretly settle into the folklore of heavily trampled floors in cracks & crags & corners below the old woolen coats huddled on hooks & hangers at last finding yourself settled in mad karma Nirvana familiar in the distance and distant with the familiar, more comfortable within the anonymity of strangers than the parasitic gossip & rumors of backstabbing, cookie-cutter, two-faced neighbors holding onto grudges, soulless, bloodless whose expressions look like they want to just take hostages & make you just as miserable those great spacious bathrooms where no one can ever reach you, get you, find you & finally stop & take a deep breath & (re)collect your thoughts & regrets & dignity & self-respect; Batman in his bat cave with needle & razor & bullets & bible & fear of intimacy & at risk-behavior, while Wonder Woman breaks down once again in her discotheque uniform, rearranging her mask & mascara & roles & becoming reborn & you return to the trapdoor of your soul taking your place in front of steamy seasonal windows, seeing all your past fleeting dramas & trauma, all madmen & runaways & phantoms & scholars old Black Panthers & Hell’s Angels shadow puppets & stick figures engaged in secret missions fragmented yet industrious silhouetted in a whisper beneath the falling curtain sputtering streetlamps of the season dog people & people who used to be rich hoteliers & men whose women all walked out on them, wheeling & dealing in the park & old farts in their plaid checkered hats & mothball overcoats looking like they just got off the boat & pigeons as much a part of this as any of these restless ghosts lost & lonesome desperately searching self-destructive souls looking to cope & put an end to this all Gyro without the sauce Mashed potatoes & peas– “Gimme a straight highball whiskey!” & Jimmy the speed dealer simply stealing away in his half-crazed smack-dab profile of self-denial with his fate & karma like some estranged superhero contented having come to terms never to be seen from or heard from again disappearing bidding farewell on his flaming thin-skinned silhouetted now ‘ya see ‘em now ‘ya don’t skateboard all the way out to the haunted & holy stapled stained-glass horizon by some burnt-out skeleton stadium on the mystical East River where retired florescent fishermen & The Banana Pudding Man make their final stand at The Hothouse beneath The Brooklyn Bridge as you simply sit there right there in your diner window with a view of the street with a view of the universe in the bare blessed pitiful beautiful dysfunction of existence no longer with any bullshit or resistance explanations or excuses conflicts or resolutions as you discover as always it’s always in abeyance in the silence of the moment in the senses in the flux of transience in reflection feeling the sun rise & fall & rise once again without virtue or sin completely at one comfortable in the glowing slums of imagination washing it all down with seltzer & a slice of lemon. #Unreal #Poetry #Odessa's Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. CommentsComments are closed.
|