Free Write Week 6

Sand
a prose expansion from thoughts on new york and collages about Sandy.

Sand makes its way into Brooklyn, New York,
and piles up in China Town for a Kung Pow Chiken sand/which
taught a thousand nights to sing about brown eyes and blonde hair.

It’s August 31, 1989 7:30 a.m. I am walking around
the corner of 72nd and Broadway headed towards Sam French, when
it comes to me in a pinch, that Sand constructed Erasmus Hall,
and sand filled the vestibule of Damrash Institute. Sand did that?

Sand always had a particular way with Music and sounds.
Sand could be a piano, singing his way into job,

The Theater Guild was built on sand and he new it.
They knew what they wanted and they got it.
It dug at me, as I tumbled through the thousand leather
gifts looking to find a fervent group

Some young jesters to join me. I stumbled
open a leaf. The first permanent, then fleeting
group brought methods or Constantine madness
to practice like those who have come to prominence
in America, namely twelve clusters of profits
living in the Connelly house Odet-sian warriors
beat the streets of brownstone, laughing at Lefty
whom they have been waited for, for ages.
They all had disenchanted minds.
The all were made to be guinea pigs,
manipulated and dissected and then left alone.

I step off the corner and head down the rust and rot
way to the underground locomotive. Nothing is organic
it’s not healthy, it's a new cancer. I pick off a backstage
journal at my usual stand detailing some ongoing discussions
with Stella and Stan and a Parisian love affair of words.

Who took deep interest? Was it the American character,
living truthfully under some pretended condition of autonomy.
I make my way into the south end of central park, where
the old man is belching his words again. I know it’s an ability,
but the hat sneaks down to sell out his art with a pretense of talent.

Now, If you talk to the old man’s comrade he will ask you
about your childhood until you cry. If you cry he is happy,
he has done his job. The reality of doing states that your crying
is better off left to your shrink shouts belch man. I walk along
head down out of fear, not dejection and I hum that song, it's all
right to be wrong as longs a you try. The lyrics are mixed up in my
head from to much repetition, but it’s something like jazz.

The bum on the corner shouts, there is no such thing as nothing.
I pause. I see a mime on the street and he irks me some,
the seventies are over,sadly. Less is more than what I bargain
for today, along cobble stones leading to colonial brick's to steeple
to Steele. I pass by my favorite hot dog stand to order a Bratwurst
with spicy mustard but all they have to sell is a pound of words
with an ounce of behavior to dip it in. Discouraged, I return
to the Beacon hotel, with its smell of remains preserved in curry.

startlingly alone in the elevator, I notice that silence has a myriad
of meanings, Silence is absence of words yet somehow never absence
of meaning." The cat lady steps into my cage and for once under
the utterance of her soft 'meow, meow' of a hello, I beg my conscious
could I just for one say screw polite, but I just don't. I closed
my trappings and buttoned the 21st floor. My internal monologue

begs just let it get around your brain like the ladies on the bottom
of the Ansionia. The old Ziegfeld daughters who wear orange eyeshadow
of lipstick and like the echos of ghost in Plato retreat and myrtle tapping at the counter, asking for cheap wine. Meow and silence, silence and meow. Silence meaning laughter stifled until tears come.

The comrade would be proud of the tears and write books about them but sand just laughs now that's in the moment, that's living truthfully. Sand is everywhere in New York.