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Presscott, Arizona
A dirty public restroom, white - used to be - now
resembling cattle skull soaked for decades in Arizona sun;
the man in the stall furthest from the cracked stone entrance threatens
to kill anyone who disturbs his . . . This is my Prescott now:
a tall drunk woman smiles at me, says hi, stares, realizes the age
difference - if only there were none - continues down good ol'
Whiskey Row in search of . . . This is the grey step: scattered random
leaves; No alcohol, No camping, No loitering, Curfew is
enforced; a man asks me for a cigarette but walks away
with his burnt-belongings after seeing the Symbolism . . .
This is not an entrance enter on Cortez side street only.
Still, I sit here after an hour of sitting there; three hours ago
I sat where the tree lazily leaves its shade. This is Prescott.
Will that be me in twenty years, content at the Espresso,
waiting until 10 PM (or AM) when I can wander
to the Montezuma, or Matt's Saloon, or Hotel St. Mikes
to have more than the average alcoholics dose of whiskey
mixed with red rum and maybe some cheap vodka,
after which I'll be stumbling to the Food Store to purchase a
pack of cigarettes to stagger home with, to wake up with
at eleven the next mean morning (or evening),
to start over again at the Espresso?
JAZZ SAYS
On the floor, against walls, in my house with
Other - greasy haired musician; Jazz says:
"Whatever happened to Hygeia? She's gone.
Whatever happened to my Buddhist neighbors?
They aren't listening to this. Prince Caspian,
sing it. This reminds me of the sea;
of C, G, B, A, E; of an apartment
filled with smoke, alcohol, and bright eyes -
both her and the music; but, we don't like
that person, although we would do that burrito as long as
the bottom breaks open and the beans spill all over.
I am ready to go to sleep, I'm not talking;
I don't know what's going on.
'Guitar,' Jazz says to Other [makes hand movements,
gurgles as Other plays]. 'Fast strumming but slow singing;
it went that fast, it was that speed, but slow singing;
one of the first songs you played for me [sings memory].
'Yes . . .' says Jazz in trance, nodding, 'it was a sad song,
upbeat strumming - melodramatic [stares at white wall,
concentrating on memory, looking inward]. Where's your
California song? Tricks are what whores do for money.'
His mind wandering and voice sparkling, splashing
smashed words onto my canvas blindly.
Jazz says: 'Just play whatever [Other strums];
I remember this. I remember this . . .'
He remembers it. We all remember it.
Jazz says: 'Are you recording me?'
I say no.
Girl wearing all black walks slowly
Matthew Moran describes himself as "an actor playing a small role in several grand plays. In each imagined production I take on a new character - each character representing a stage of development in my life. My writing reflects my act, my audience, and the stage I stumble upon. I am currently an undergraduate student. (June 2008)
If frames-incompatible, Click Lunarosity
MY BOSS TOLD ME TO
Rise up again from your barb-wire bed-sheets
that lack the comfort of a pen or pencil gripped tightly.
Speak your pearly whites, lips crusted, dry from Sun;
listen to the common, repeated phrase:
T . . . this is it,
H . . .so make the best of it:
E . . . read Rilke;
E . . . get lost in Mautremaunt;
M . . . feel the heartbeats of a child
P . . .before it dies by death of [- Do not hire
L . . .maturity, adulthood; Illegal Aliens.
O . . . don't worry I'm certified Do not punish
Y . . . as a heart surgeon, so the Government,
E . . . grow a heart Law, or Authorities.]
R . . . not Draconian,
T . . . Crowlean or Solomonian.
E . . . Dose does
L . . . . . . . . . . . . . not
L . . . . . . . . . . . . . matter.
S . . . Simply, you. Muse, Angel, Human, Beast:
M . . . believe and become FREE!
T . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FREE!
O . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FREE!
L . . . Non-sense.
E . . .
A . . .
V . . . [NOW IS NOW]
E . . .
SOCIAL GATHERING
Scene: two urchins, young,
lively yet subordinated
and licking all signs of life
at any given moment; silence
conducted by its magnificent maestro;
laughing accompanied by smoke;
driving, swerving, bumps, lights;
noise becomes hum-drum comforting
collective white-waves; all and nothing
heard; frightening when words
combined with words of another orator
sprout from the wire-walled-garden;
cigarette after unnecessary cigarette.
Then:
past, while the music from inside
drowns out the few dying conversations
surrounding, and she sits, and she sips,
and looks down at her shoes, which are
at that moment facing each other
as if to kiss; twelve feet away he
stands up; they talk; one less for me.