Free write week 7

A poem edited with advice from Dr. Davidson, still working on this one.

 

My last day at the Dakota

I wake up, get out of bed. I surf fifth avenue waves,
On my Chernobyl Computer. I watch my great smog
Television explode. Bored with news, I turn on
My cotton gin for high times.

I ride the great earthquake to the lobby and telephoned
For my copy of the New York Times.
I open the glass onion pages searching for cold peace. 

My smoldering eyes see the news today
On the memorial of the triangle sewing machine windows,

Through which factory workers cast the first shadows 

Of their frost bit bodies to the naked road.

I notice a pungency in the lobby, like weeds microwaved
Or the other side of pungency, that which radio operators
In reception offices at kulmhof politely ignored.

At my mailbox, I unravel the submitted paperback,
Reminding me of a day in the life, 

When I shot frames of St. Helen, Sean,
And our boxcar with a Hindenburg Camera.

I walk across the lane and pick up a penny.
I look around the park a while for fields of berries.

Laughing a cab down, I ride downtown, where bad morning sunshine
Says good day, but not hello hello as it ebbs in the wake of the twins.
The earth does not say anything but the brownstones smell of dark apples.

Way past dawn now, I leave the old age aquarium and notice I am late.
 I leave the stock market and take the L. train heading for a crash or an imagined one.

Outside the rumbling window I hear electric shots or blind Willie drumming in the subway.
I think I know the song he plays, it reminds me of tomorrow and all my yesterdays,
And happiness and that summer in India. I miss George today. 
I am gunning up the quake again for my warm Dakota hallow.

To me this century Seems tired.
I'm so tired. It's nap time,
And this time, I bed in, for the last time.

I am adding a postscript to answer any questions about what is at stake or where this poem is going. I am hoping it is clear at this point, without being too safe. Since I do not own  want to own or completely care to comprehend all of the meaning at this point. I really have no certainty.
but being that it is his posthumous 70th birthday the speaker is John Lennon.

(John Lennon was born October 9, 1940, to those who loved his music and his excellent lyrics he is missed today.The Dakota building although a lovely 19th century piece of architecture is perhaps best known as the home of former 'Beatle' John Lennon, starting in 1973, and as the  location of Lennon's murder by Mark David Chapman on December 8, 1980. This occurred six years before I first visited the Dakota. To my knowledge, Ono still has an apartment in the building. The Strawberry  memorial was laid out in memory of Lennon in Central Park directly across from the Dakota in Central Park West. the memorial was a favorite spot for me as a young man living in the city. The Dakota was a palace of awe. I used to joke with friends that when I made it big as an actor, I would reside there. This poem grew out of my calisthenic, I did not intentionally decide to write about Lennon, but the persuasion of the media caught me by surprise and I began to realize that my speaker had become Lennon the day before his death, at this point I have embraced that idea fully. That is where this poem goes, but I am uncertain if the road it takes is the best one. It seems to place his death in category with the greatest disasters of the twentieth century, and his music is pitted against the greatest inventions. as much as I admire his work, i doubt I would care to try my hand it that on some other day than his birthday, but today seems fitting.  However, the author does not own the meaning, so feel free to distract me from this idea on another day.)



Dakota Day

I wake up; get out of bed. I surf fifth avenue waves,

on my Chernobyl Computer. I watch as my great smog

television explodes. Bored with news, I turn on my cotton gin
for high times. I ride the earthquake to the lobby and telephoned

for my copy of the New York Times.

I open the onion pages searching for cold peace.

My smoldering eyes see a write up on the triangle memorial
sewing machine windows through which factory workers
cast the first shadows of frost bit bodies, lying naked in the road of Washington street.

I notice a pungency in the lobby, like microwaved weeds

or the other side of pungency, that which radio operators
in reception offices at kulmhof politely ignored. At my mailbox,
the paperback peaks out reminding me of a day in the life,
when I shot frames of Helen, Sean, and the steam engine
with a Hindenburg Camera.

I walk around the park a while looking for the fields, laughing a cab down.
Bad morning sunshine ebbs, and the earth does not say hello.
I leave the stock market and take the L.train both heading for a crash.
back home in my Dakota Apartment
the world seem so tired,
and I'm gonna bed in
for the last time.