My Night With Paul Simon
(Posted originally on June 5, 2013)

On the night train, the red eye plane,
Flying home to NYCeeeeeeeeeeeee,
From the city of Los Angeleeeeeeez

Feeling flush, dropped some cash,
Got me a seat in extra large first class

Seat 2C, plenty of room for my toes,
To wiggle  to dance, lay down some poetry tracks,
pretending I'm a **** jive,
bad *** from the
make-believe west coast

A short guy, with fedora down low,
An older man,
looking about nine years older
than somebody I might know,
hiding his eyes @ 9pm
neath some excellent Raybans,
slip slides into 2D,
gives me a smile,
And says Hi, I'm Paul

I look once at his face and say,
Listen Rhymin' Simon,
I'd know you any place,
No worries, your secret,
with me is safe,
Cause dudes in row 2,
gottta stick together, be cool,
We're riding first class,
over the land of the free

What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

He said that's cool,
I like to do that too.
Guitars on planes
drive passengers insane,
They take up too much
overhead compartment space,
I just scribble me some rhymes and
Let the music come
when I got two feet
on the ground in the city
we both come from.

Paul:  You got any stuff writ
on that yellow sheet,
or just pretty blue lines,
a big pad of nothing?

Dude: Man you may got diamonds
on the soles of your shoes,
But pay me some 'spect,  
you talking to the man who penned
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland
on Hello Poetry, gad ****!

Paul smiled and said
you can call me Al,
And if you feel like blowing some lines together,
We got five hours till we can see
the house that Ruth built.

Dude: Hit me with your best shot,
I'll show you what I got

Paul: And she said honey take me dancing
But they ended up by sleeping
In a doorway
By the bodegas and the lights on
Upper Broadway
Wearing diamonds on the soles of their shoes

Dude: Just cause the union of the  monkeys
in the Bronx Zoo done gone on strike,
Don't mean the lion ain't
still king of the hill
inside this New York city jail

Paul: And the sign said,
"The words of the prophets are written
on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered
in the sounds of silence

Dude: A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet
******

Paul: You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just listen to me
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

Dude: Contact with the atmosphere
makes self pity die,
blue blood turn red,
the TNT tightness in my chest exploded
I got no place
to store these words,
the cops think I'm
some kind of
Terrorist

On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp

the speedometer that measures the
acceleration and deceleration of
time in our lives journey is
remarkably similar to the one
we employ in our vehicles

intra moment we can move from
slowness to rapidity in minuscule
amounts of seconds, all the while,
those few bursts of being high, are
parcel of a longer cross country trip
that could be calculated in years,
decades, even life-spans

though we lack the visual imprimatur
upon our eyes of our exact speed most
times, we always have in our possess
a notional beginning and ending

we take a trip to grocery store, up/down
to NYC, fly to Paris just because, and return
home to bury and burn loved ones,
witnesses and fellow travelers to the
longer segments of our irregularly
configured continuum

here, you sigh, why, do you trouble us
with this obvious observation when
we have so much to do, so many roles
to don, and the kids need milk for cereal,
which is a thirty minute round trip that
should have not been necessary had
we “organized our moments of movement
far better organized!

perspicacity.

this word has been mindful for me for a
days, while bits and bobs, of a poem’s
composition blurted up and out, in  
some disarray, while the mind, tries
to collect them all, all for one, for
later collation and an unknown
destination

the wisdom to see down the road.
to plan accordingly, when we can oft
not* see around the next corner,
or even the next single steps we “plan”
to take, made without any thought
thereof

is there a poem in here, somewhere, Oh Sinner-man?
perhaps…or, just an indifferent end?

Silent, dark, bats rest
Photos of a few days' guests
Peeling plaster, lost lustre
Years of life gone to waste?

The men now, little know
About the men then, hang hollow
The air dull, cracks on wall
The men now, will soon follow.

Once life, there lived galore
Dancing feet rippled on floors
It's all past, turned to dust
The masters left, so the ******.

Men now, they care not know
All will sink in time's flow
Cobwebs will rule strong
Spiders have survived long.

The evening shades have descended
and a peaceful darkness is upon the land.
Clear star filled skies and a new moon on
the rise.

The frogs and crickets are in fine fiddle,
their night music in tune, romancing the
air with their hypnotic rhythmic tempo.
The garden fountain is playing along, water
sounds join the musical chorus as does the
light fresh westerly breeze rustling the leaves
of my two garden birch trees. Truly a musical
symphony to my old man ears. Another
tranquil night interlude heard and enjoyed.
Add a purring cat on my lap, I am content.

Flaunt your joy
Dig your sorrow
You have only today
Who knows 'bout morrow!