| Jay Halsey |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Red Pulp Underground
| My Dirty Laundry At 18 years hungry, I recall The freedom of seclusion Every Friday night Whether it be From lack of money Or lack of life Hiking down icy sidewalks To Sun Cleaners Mostly vacant Except myself And that girl Oh that girl Misplaced in the wrong time In the wrong town Such a beauty in that Shitscape of ugliness The girl whose Nameless image was Familiar comfort to me On many lonely nights Too cool, retro Thick-rimmed glasses And her innocence Dove white skin Rockabilly Goddess body Nails chewed to nub I wanted one taste Of those fingers A little nibble, teasing On my lips, on hers Unwashed, ink stained So I’d pile the dirties In the machines Two loads Filthy work clothes And not work clothes The latter was quite a small load I’d pull myself up, sitting On folding counter Directly opposite of the girl Open up Bukowski, Krassner, Carroll Whoever I thought to be Hip at the time And I’d peer From behind the pages Try to catch a glance One glance from glasses Never happened… So I’d dismount Turn against The inside of the window Pretend to watch falling white Against black December skies My signature move Never failed You know I’d catch her lookin’ At me of course In window’s reflection She’d keep lookin’ Without a sound Until I’d stare back Facing her She’d turn away Or glance down at the Dry cleaning books… That girl Never letting Our eyes connect She refused to be Juvenile and hasty Never surrendering To flirtatious temptation and This game Invented only by myself Played on and on Throughout the holidays Every Friday night Until I moved from that rat’s nest apartment She was undeniably special That girl And so much smarter Than all the others Who came before her Copyright Ó 2006 by Jay Halsey |
| Full on Empty Sometimes when you’re Down I mean really down Trapped within that infinite hole Lined with grease and shit You stop caring Cease to continue worrying About anything And everything On my way home From work one evening Overcast and shattered Traffic at an Insurmountable constipation I escaped the freeway Detouring Onto James H. MacGee The West Side The newsworthy side With a tank near empty And a bladder overflowing I signaled left Pulled hard into a busy Shop S-mart Gas Parked at pump 4 And walked inside 2nd in line At the attendant’s window Clad in chicken wire I noticed I was only 1 Of 2 non-blacks Occupying the premises The other being Uncomfortably underpaid Hired security I requested 10 on 4 And the bathroom key All eyes stalking me Waiting for weakness I entered the unisex 4x6 Door clicked shut Urine flowed with ease Unlike the chatter coming From the other side of the door Drained, zipped and relieved I exited into deafening silence All eyes devouring the Remnants of my constitution “You don’t live around here do you,” the attendant confirmed He wasn’t asking “Not by a long shot,” I answered Shaking my head and Handing over the key He smiled toothy, ear-to-ear And the sun beamed brightly Through convenience store doors “Alright then…you take it easy.” I smiled back, “You too, man.” Sometimes when you’re Down I mean really down It’s often best to Dig out the shit From underneath the nails And to stop caring About anything Anything At all November 2007 |
Convalescent Rain Upon Lunchtime Soup There were no colors today Just gray And Rain As I sat, Eating through the mist Courthouse Square Alive as always Regardless of the wet Depression, soaking concrete bones, Transit troubles and siren screams Hushed To the iPod sounds of Charlie’s sax And acceptance was a phenomenon Rarely seen in the downtown Mexicans Blacks Whites Business men and Women Drug dealers Prostitutes Protesters Veterans Believers Questioners Fortunate and Destitute All of society’s cats and dogs Just people Gathered together Not separate Talking Probably of forecast Damning the weather man And themselves, Perhaps But chatting nonetheless As one Joined Huddled beneath bus stop’s shelter Creed, race and sex Lied, duct taped In an asphalt coffin Buried Below the sewers and broken hearts Blinded from afternoon news If only for lunch break hour Yesterday’s leaders Kings and Gandhis And parallel dreams Finally rested in peace Smiling upon that scene For the absence of Sun Was a warming soup Poured over the littered streets And pigeon shit minds of Humanity’s Better half Today, I welcomed That momentary drench To be eternal And the city was a thirsty sponge, The weather was indifferent Because there were no colors Just gray And rain And people. October 2007 |
| Click here to read Jay Halsey's Short Stories |
| BREATHE… I suffocated on anger’s Bittersweet awakening Last night and the dream came Rushing to me, FedExed Through the tiny synapses connecting My inner fears to love gone Lost forever on the Great Plains Of tear flood infinity with no one In sight to cradle my hand of demise The winds ripped clean the skin Of yesterday, my face lay Naked and barren to the Provoking ridicules of those Who were eager and greedy to See the real me through The cherry red, plastic Viewfinder Shuffling through my Childhood, click then click then click, Frame by frame, my life mirroring Images into the eyes of a monster’s Callous grin as (s)he drank away Indulging and feeding sadist misfortunes Leaving me to question… Reflection Breaking the surface I drown A little a more into The depths of the unconscious lunacy Gnashing away at the gray matter in my Skull because I believe there isn’t Such a thing as simple black and white… Just lighter and darker shades of Gray, never just black Never just white But always mixing and swirling Gray-blue seas collapsing The cerebral cortex of my tomorrow Marinating in the bubbling stew of days gone Long ago, just wanting to forget this breath Stale and putrid of Death’s long goodnight Beckoning the tide washing chilly and fervent Over my present state of wanting and pleading And I awake in flames, burning The past to ashes as the smoky haze Spells out a question that solicits the Words, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE? I respond and I speak “I want to be alive.” November 2007 |
Haters are far and wide Freckled shit across the null And voids Never pigeonholed to a particular Race or body They assault with a miserable will Camouflaged among the Starched, whitewashed gathering Their odium is enforced and Given ridiculous substance By other haters who feel parallel Concerning subjects of The You But their true vengeful nature Lies within the circumstance(s), Given that You are not detested Instead, respected by the lot Appreciated for Your Talents Viewpoints and Strengths Or even the lack of… They despise One and all Who relate with You Belittling Your message They hate You They burn the podium For which You stand upon They hate the expressions Flowing from Your heart’s past Sculpting Your present They hate You and Your Mighty Force To overcome They hate Your language… THEY HATE YOUR ART. For they do not understand art And that which breathes without comprehension From The Mass Will surely go ignored, and, If not easily dismissed, Your facility Should be Will be HAS GOT TO BE Destroyed Buried, masked from the sunlight Of Your confident Self… …Yet the haters fuel Your art Blinded to the fact That their contempt is An absolute essence Clean inspiration For You to chew and gnash Into a savory pulp Into a state of tasteful edibility Swallowed with an easy appetite Just to be regurgitated Evolving exact meaning While crowning its soft, naked head… Birthed into this and Dying out of this Becoming Your Creation. November 2007 |