In memory of Dennis “DennyGee” Larrauri 12/21/71 – 09/29/09. Death by Subway train in New York City. He knew where the good awnings were Uptown on nights when the rain came down like like the pent up years of tears. Revel in Peace My Brother.
At 4am I wake
to the panic and fear that always greet me first
a coffee, and a valium, the mix warms my brain
its still dark outside as it will be for some time
I’m reminded of the nights that never ended
when the dark lasted all day
Its winter now, when the streets get cold
Though I can’t see the city from my window, a couple thousand miles away
I can feel its pain, and get calls regularly as old friends pass away
Outside leftovers leaves and hay decay into the compost pile
nitrogen and carbon in equal exchange
whatever critters are now coming out
will surely have no complaints
somewhere beyond the pile of leaves men are
sleeping—or trying their best to—next to me on the train
It might be ten years ago or ten years from today
It’s 4am and freezing, all options obscured by stigma, signs, and bench spikes
Spikes, thats right, just to keep the public bus bench body free for the night
The darker it gets the harder the choices are to see
Everything’s always blurry, and always hurried
running on an hour of sleep
and an empty stomach is indeed a heavy heavy weight
a pitch black world, both underground and above
on the tracks headed down the tunnel looking for a 5 foot hideaway
the critters don’t hide here, by 4:30 I know all the rats names
but at least they don’t carry billy clubs or jack you for your change
and I pray their curious little noses stay far from my, what we’ll call “my space”
Its safe enough by 6, I’m ready for the day.
in a couple hours the sun will shine, on me anyway,
for others, for those on the train, it will remain a dismal blur of grey.
options obscured, a life un-visible, reduced to human stain
sans sleep shelter and safety..
there is no flow state, there is no sane, there is no energy for equal exchange
no one has the time for spare or lasting change
how can such inequality be rightly explained?
maybe donate to sierra club and quell the itch you can’t name
“Keep it moving, you can’t sit/lay/stay/be here” remains the constant refrain.
Outside my window a single rose bud blooms, and redwoods make up it’s frame.
What God told me at forty was a loud and clear proclaim:
Never forget their stories. Tell the world their names.