Come Back Dreams

January 25, 2010

Back a few years, I was staying in another city and traveled the short hour or so it took to visit an old acquaintance. One not seen in almost 40 years. A jam session was the order of the day; it would be two eating sessions in between and actually night by the time the reunion was to happen. I looked forward to the long day.

I had made sure to arrive really early to enjoy more than a few hours until the jam. Lunch or the noon hour was not a long way off so I walked around for a while until feeling hungry. I strolled while gazing in windows into a familiar area where I was hoping to find an old haunt. It was located around the upper 50’s on the west side. At least I’d hoped it was as an earlier remembrance.

I walked down the few city blocks it was in order to fill an order of hunger pangs. The Brooklyn Diner, was yes, still in business and located in New York City across the street from The Art League. Traveling up to Columbus Circle

The place was still a warm welcome and of course the American fare was the usual; pretty good. After and during appreciating lunch I was talking to a few other customers who sat at the next table; two excited tourists from the U.K.

In our not too short conversation at the end they had asked for directions to the place across the street. The same mentioned earlier; The Art League was pointed out to them with a smile as they sauntered on their way with another American’s photo; eating lunch with one hand while waving a pickle at them with the other.

I had more time to kill. I stayed there, ordered another drink for I guess a few more hours and began writing the words to the title of this particular Bloggo. All I had with mme as far as a scribing tool was concerned was a felt tip pen; a sharpie one at that. Those fat ones only bring out more of mmy worst hand writhing. Knee’d less to say, thank you for inventing it Mr. Typewriter.

The writing on material was several nicely squared napkins. After the waitress noticed the struggle with unfortunate ripping she offered and did bring a few larger pieces of yellow writing paper, apparently lifted from the office of her boss. Needless to say I wasn’t prepared for the write time that had happened in the spur of the moment. Most times I’ll usually carry paper, rock and scissors.

It was close to Christmas time so I thanked her for the present and asked if it would be OK to sit and write for a while. No problemo she said while scanning around the room and noticing the dwindling lunch crowd. The little missive was continued; the same one you’re welcome to read at the end here.

Lunch time was ending. The streets were packed with people hurrying to and fro on their way to everything they know and some probably didn’t. I did notice a trio who had no clue where they were; or it seemed so when they hailed a Calvary Cop who saved their day with a smile while looking down from atop the huge brown gleaming mount. The mount seemed like it knew the weigh.

As they left saying thank you the mount left a thank you of its own as the smartly blue bedecked mman of the hour continued on. There was no one behind to take up the slack, slapped to the ass fault with a splat of moored them a few nuggets of pew. Several others looked but like death on a busy street of most big cities sometimes their’s really no one who notices. Or that’s how it may, a peer.

While sitting there looking out at the continually transforming sea of humanity, vehicles of every size, colour, form and sound passed bye in re; view. I began to record the ever changing seen while from time to time the waitress asked how I was doing and could she pour more in the empty glass vessel. Yes, thanks, yes.

I was reminded of while in grammar school doing a book report on the place and thought about it a little. I wasn’t really thirsty but the length of time experiencing the public movie, the habit of reaching out to grab the glass and lead it up to the face while filling the orifice with liquid was too easy not to resist.

That day I helped to empty what could have been a few of Mr. Coke’s three axle delivery trucks as well as refilling what flushed threw this body of what could have been and what discharging times felt like Grand Cooley Dam.

Driving from coast to coast, back to the original coast then back again another time and two more in between and more times than one can count again or even cares to after that is what brought mme to these words and:

Come Back Dreams

New York, New York what a wonder full town
The Jazz is up and the mmusic gets down
From Rose Hall ‘round threw Columbus square
The circle turns park at 7th; 8th Street they’re.

Walkin’ down south; make a left; 57th
The Art League, Brooklyn Diner’s feed heaven
Spoke two the Londoner’s of Hard Rock; Devon
Smiled while ‘druthers’ photo’s tastes gives in, on.

Eye’s watched walled traffic in front of the placed.
The hustler’s bustle’s hustle through every small space.
The faces turn, turn style stairs towards mme.
Aye, grabbed a phew smiles, end connected as we.

Ain’t life grand at a time like this?
The lights on trees, the field of love’s gist.
We tide our times when we live yonder weigh
Our dream’s home buoyed hear,
Wear coast two kin play.