:the mind:::

New York City Hard Time Blues by: Miguel Pinero

NYC Blues
Big time time hard on on me blues
New York City hard sunday morning blues
yeah
Junkie waking up
bones ache trying to shake
New York City sunday morning blues
the sun was vomiting itself up over
the carbon monoxide detroit perfume
strolling down the black asphalt dance floor
where all the disco sweat drenched Mr. Mario's
summer suit still mambo-tango hustled
to the tunes of fiberglass songs
New York City sunday morning means
liquor store closed
bars don't open 'til noon
and my connection wasn't upping
a 25 cent balloon
yeah
yeah reality wasn't giving me no play
telling me it was going to be sunday
24 hours the whole day
it was like the reincarnation of the night
before when my ashtray became
the cemetery of all my lost memories
when a stumble bum blues band
kept me up all night playing me cheap
F. M.
dreams
of hard time
sad time
bad time
hell we all know times are
hard
sad
bad
all over
well I thought of the pope
welfare hopes
then I thought of the pope again
whose sexual collar musta been tighter
than a pimp's hat band
yeah
that brought a warm beer smile to this
wasteland the mirror called my face
ya see
I left my faith in a mausoleum
when my inspiration ran off with
a trumpet player
who wore double knit suits and stacy adam shoes
this girl left me so broke
my horoscope said
my sign was a dead dog in the middle
of the road
yeah
the morning will be giving up to the noon
and soon I'll hear winos and junkyard dogs
howling at the moon
made the shadows
dance
at jake's juke saloon
as a battalion of violet virgins
sang tunes
of deflowered songs
men poured their
fantasies of lust into young boy's
ears
car stolen
whizzed by
crying hard luck tears in beers
the love conflict of air conditioned
dim lit motel rooms
rumpled sheets with blood stains
explain
my yesterday night of mind
the winter fell as hard
as the smell of a brick shithouse
in the hot south
Om . . .
but the hawk seeped into my home
chillin' my bones
Om . . .
it didn't hear my incantation
there has to be an explanation
wasn't it true
when you
Om . . .
you are one
Om . . .
make me warm
Om . . .
is part of god
Om . . .
make the cold wind stop
Om . . .
perhaps if I
Om . . .
stronger
Om . . .
louder
Om . . .
LONGER
OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
it don't work
Om . . .
I feel like a jerk
I'll try once more just to make sure
OMMMMM
maybe if I pleaded on my knees
to J. C.
he'd take heed of my needs
and melt the icicles
from the tears in my eyes
but it was still cold
I'm told if you sing
"I'm gonna lay down my sword and shield
down by the river side . . . down by the river side"
I get no signal
maybe if I do it bilingual
"en la cruz, en la cruz yo primero vi la luz"
oh come on chuito
have a heart
take apart the winter winds from me
please . . . J. C. . .
OM . . .
en la cruz
down by the river side
10 hail marys I offer
and 5 our fathers
but the cold was no further
than before
I should know its very rare when
a prayer
gets the boiler fixed
OMMMMM
yeah
New York City december sunday morning
was whippin' my ass in a cold blooded fashion
treatin' me like a stepchild
putting a serious hurting on me
watching me bleed
thru my sleeves
as I tried to get high
shooting up caffeine without saccarine
that some beat artist sold me down
on eldredge st.
yeah
but that's the ghetto creed
that the strong must feed
yeah
brotherman
everything was happening faster than the
speed of sound
my whole seemed like it was going down
I wonder who ever wrote that tune
about being back on top in june
nigger forgot about september and december
now that's a month to remember
when each cold day becomes like a brick wall
and you're the bouncing ball
yeah I kept seeing my fate being sealed
by the silk smooth hands of the eternal bill
collector
who keeps rattling my door knob
pressing my avon ding dong bell . . .
my pockets were crying the blues
telling me that I ain't fed them a dollar in years
and was it clear that they couldn't hold
anymore unpaid debts . . . traffic tickets . . . or promissory notes
and hey that was when I wished I was back in
L. A.
laid back
L. A.
kick back
L. A.
smog town
hollywood . . . driving down to malibu
hollywood U. S. A . . ..hey hey USA hollywood
seedy looking film producers smile at you
over a burrito with taco bell breath
explain the plots to fellini movies
they aint ever seen
hollywood . . . down to malibu
at two a. m. if you get tired
of cal worthington shit-eating grin
you walk out on him hit santa monica blvd
and watch the manicured thumbs caress the
homosexual airs of rolled up jeans and silver buckles
as westwood camaro rides very slow very low
down western ave
where neon lights scream
the latest kick in adult entertainment
masturbation
enters your thoughts
when pornographic stars with colgate smiles
whisper
inane
mundane
snides of flicking your bic
or I'm nancy fly with me national
well I'm going nowhere got nowhere to go
going nowhere fast
got me a couple of dollars a few dimes
and plenty of time
go into some bar on alvarado
and temple listen to some mariachi music
or stroll into some dive joint off sunset
sit in some naugahyde booth
with some dishwater blond
with sagging breasts
wearing a see thru blouse
and listen to all her 1930 starlet dreams
as she smokes all my cigarettes
sure what have I got back at that
refugee from a leprosy colony hotel
but a one station a. m. radio
feeding my neurological cells
with those south street philadelphia blues
she wants to cruise thru griffin park
no thank you
I'd rather listen to linda ronstadt instead
and the bartender tell dirty jokes
and his customers recite 12% alcoholic aluminum
recycled viet nam horror stories
reading the signs of our times
the obituary of a dying society
the folktales of yesteryear's gonorrhea
history
hollywood going down to malibu
malibu . . . pretty people and fonzi T shirts
flex their muscles spreading spiritual bad breath
and joe namath perfume
yeah
but i'm in new york city
crying the junkie blues
welfare afro hairdos sprout out
of frye boots
yeah punk rockers hitting on you
for subway fare three times
soon the mohair slick lines
at penn station are getting impatient
wanna get home
to alone
make the scene with a magazine
or with a plastic doll
'cause the missus got another headache
gaze at the farrah foster poster
that adorns his horny teenage son's walls
yeah these days always
have a way of showing up
like rubber checks
I wish I could cop a bottle of muscatel
stroll thru the bowery with a pocket
full of wino dreams
but sunday morning in New York City
for the junkie there ain't no pity
we just walk the streets with loaded dice
and hear people say there goes miky
miky piñero
they call him the junkie christ . . .