End of the Celebration

1 06 2016

End of the Celebration

Long ago. In a passed life. Before the flood. Of Ivory soap commercials. When Jack Benny was still doing guest spots. When the cement was being mixed. And the bricks laid. The Berlin Wall. Before the Beatles. And the micro chiiiip. When the Russians sent a 2 headed dog around the planet. To mark its territory. I was promised happiness.

I found this promise. On the back of a soggy box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. My father explained happiness. As he dipped his Marguerite cigar. In the yellow. Yoke. Twins. Happiness and Paradise. And a numbered Swiss bank account. Established by an Irish Poet. Who later died of alcoholism. I remembered that promise. Made so long ago. When I met Monica. I had found happiness. No one mentioned anything about it being temporary.

Like a Buick through the Lincoln Tunnel. Thoughts passed through my head. We sat in the Hayloft. A fancy French restaurant. It was my birthday. The waiters gathered in front of our table and began singing ‘Happy Birthday’. In French. It was the specialty of the house. I could feel it. There was something. Ominous in the air.

I whispered to the soup. Monica asked if it was too hot. I pointed out that I was putting the question. Does love ever win out? Like the Christians in the coliseum. Yawning into the mouths of the lions. Gestures are a buffer against pain. She was leaving. Melancholy. Happiness’s fare…



I was a street poet. Talked, ranted, rhymed about the people I knew on Church Street. Everything had pace. Prose poems. And they were long. Words, thoughts, came at you from every direction. It was like the traffic.











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