WHAT DO I WANNA BE WHEN I GROW UP?
So, you want to know,
What do “I” wanna be when I grow up?
Well….
When I grow up, I wanna be the wind,
That soothes the tired, haggard faces of sailors, on cargo ships, in the Atlantic,
When they lay on their backs - resting on dry, oily, leathery cots.
Their bodies aching with pain, their hands blistered and burning.
As they look at the stars, dreaming of Distant Homelands.
Distant Homelands where,
Poverty chokes the cries of a starving baby,
And beasts plunder the tender, soft bodies of broken down girls,
Who sacrifice themselves, just for a loaf of bread,
Just for A LOAF OF BREAD – you hear!!
Or for a shelter, from a murderous night, in a warm cozy bed.
Distant Homelands of sailors, on far away cargo ships in the Atlantic,
That lay like a dagger deep into their hearts,
And exist, beyond the stony existence of their grinding nights and days,
That they count on their broken fingers.
Ah, the Distant Homelands, that are,
Far beyond the mortal reaches,
Of sailors, on the cargo ships in the Atlantic.
When I grow up, I wanna be a coffee table.
At Barnes and Nobles bookstore in the Union Square, NY.
Listening to the intimate talks of secret lovers.
As they share their heartbeats in whispers and romantic smiles.
Exchanging untainted promises and unfulfilled fantasies,
With their delicate bodies pressed against each other, under the tables.
His fingers playing expertly, the cello of her body.
Every string, a different wave of intoxicating ecstasy.
As she struggles to keep a straight face
With blood rushing through her every vein.
Betraying her every effort of normalcy.
Beyond the piercing eyes of old retired ladies,
Who pretend to read intently the latest NY fashion magazines.
Hoping to catch a glimpse of trembling lips, blushed cheeks.
Or maybe of the bygone fantasies they never got to live through.
When I grow up, I wanna be a Chocolate Almonds Hershey Bar.
Melting softly in the back pockets of a loose pair of Jeans
Of an eight year old, with Big Blue eyes and a gentle, shy smile
As he thinks of another prank to play, unaware and coy,
While riding on the wings of an Angel of Mercy, under the blazing sun.
Alas, the naive Angel that flew so high, that it touched the burning sky.
And the bright stars of the dreams, of the boy with Big Blue eyes,
All fell into the ocean deep,
While the eight year old, simply fell asleep.
When I grow up, I wanna be a Yellow Cab in New York City.
Dropping yellow puppies of miles,
Along the deserted streets of Bronx NY at midnight,
As I race with other cars, coughing black smoke.
Me cursing the BMWs and Ferraris of rich fat kids snorting cocaine,
And sucking on Cuban cigars, hating the bitter taste all the way,
But pretending to be the tough macho men of mean streets of Bronx NY.
The BMWs and Ferraris, leaving the bruised and battered yellow cab behind,
With their red tail-lights, glaring at me in the dark,
The tail lights - a pair of red, round, half-asleep eyes
Like a black cat in a stormy night, eyeing me.
When I grow up, I wanna be a city-bus token.
Hiding deep into the pockets of a ladies purse
Playing hide-n-seek with those long lovely fingers
Giggling and kissing them in their frantic search for me
As a city bus nears and she still can’t find me.
Me, making love to scented moist napkins in her purse,
And imagining the soft silky skin of hers,
These damn lucky napkins would soon soothe
And heal from the burning glares of perverts,
Forever masturbating in their decaying imaginations
As they pretend to wait besides her daily,
At the Whitesboro Bus Stop in Utica NY, at 8:00 AM,
Hoping desperately to brush against her,
Dreaming to run their slimy fingers along her smooth body
Even for a second
Maybe once in their sordid, sorry and pleasure-less lives.
When I grow up, I wanna be a movie poster at the Angelika Film Center in Manhattan NY.
Looking BACK at people - as they scan me with their piercing eyes
While I read the stories, etched upon their souls and look at
Their Real Faces –
Hidden deep behind dark sun glasses and layers of cheap makeup
And I Listen to the echoes of cries and silence of tears of their un-lived lives,
That they hide behind fake smiles, fake hellos and fake goodbyes.
Uttered daily without a single concerning thought,
Uttered, in the shiny corridors, of their otherwise empty vacant lives.
Lives littered with meaningless wealth and posh apartments on Park Avenue, Manhattan.
Lives that now barely span
The sagging skins, the hollowed eyes, the withered breasts
Like those of sad old prostitutes, no one wants anymore,
Hiding behind the pillars in the Chelsea Meat Market in downtown Manhattan,
Waiting in vain for clients, but too old to whore now.
While the silent rich spectators of the movie poster, that reflects their un-lived lives,
Now sigh in utter resignation,
Bowing to a fate, unbeknown to them, written by their own bleeding fingers,
They wait and wander with aimless passion,
Laden from head to toe, with latest in trendy clothes, jewelry, whatever.
Wandering among the noise of diesel trucks and cries of crushed dreams.
The cries no one hears or cares about anymore, any longer.
And the dreams that they slaughtered with their own hands,
Blaming all the while the fate or the mayor.
And finally, my Dearest one.
When I grow up, I wanna be the rain drops.
Falling patiently, silently upon your window sills.
Playing for you, an orchestra of love, in the midnight hour
As you pretend to sleep like a child,
But lay wide awake, in your lover’s arms.
Inhaling deep, The Old Spice aftershave from his raggedy face
Away from his whiskey breath and all of his manhoodness,
Wondering, with half closed eyes,
Whatever the hell happened, to the butterflies,
And rainbows and the streams where garfish jumps out
Suddenly and unexpectedly,
Making your heart skip a thousand beats
You, leaping out of shadows, to chase a butterfly, giggling.
Him, calling your name with hazy invitation of frenzied passion
As he sets up the lover’s nest under the weeping willow,
Down by the woodcutter’s hut.
And whatever the hell happened, to the Promised Land
With all its glory and bounty of pleasures and the hopes and dreams
Of romantic walks in the moon light by the ocean front.
And whatever the hell happened, to the tales of happily lived ever-after.
Or does it even matter anymore.