an old man sits, stares
stares blank at his world
sitting on a park bench
playing chess with a man
about his age; they are not
friends in his eyes he is not
even worth the game they play
the parents hustle the kids
away from the man with black
overhead and acid spit forth
"the old days were the best,"
he says, chucking his smoke
with the rest, lights another,
"didn't worry bout shit, man,
chillin, stonin, bangin...
yeah, that was it, bro..."
he pulls back a tear, swallows
the last of the beer, "check,"
chiding his opponent about
the lack of logic in his game,
slandering humanity at this
example of chaos whose doses
filled his soul far too often
as the altars burn behind
the soul that hates the flesh
"check," again, he grins slight
the subtle hatred taunting
his opponent to oblivion
a ball strikes his shoulder
a weak throw, he notes, as he
grabs the ball and throws it,
not caring where it lands
sits back down, as if the ball
did not even touch him
sees a black pawn missing
grins in evil nonchalance,
in solemn confidence of chance
"i never married, no kids, just
me, myself, and my pains (laughter)
(cough) these young punks think
who they are fuck em all you left
your queen unprotected why have
one if you ignore it?" knocks
out white queen with black rook
"hey, check again, bro, ya too
slow for this, been playin years
you an me ya haven't learned
shit that what wrong, man, no one
gave a shit, man, man, i gave a
shit what i got back? a goddamn
chess board checkmate a beer
and a pack a reds fuck it all"
slams the chessboard pieces fly
chaotic patterns of shattered
plastic, "i cared, no one cares
what did i expect from fucking
humanity logic is worthless they
can't help but kill themselves,
i'm 80, been tryin 35 years, hell,
65 years, yeah, still tickin, bro,
doctors shocked i'm still making
payments on their jag's death may
be eternity but life hurts more"
he spits, pulls a book of matches
from his coat, and burns them all
as they die, he pretends to sing
"all we are...is dust...in the wind"
author's note: this poem was written in my dorm room at school, laying down on the floor. i could not sleep because of this vision that was stuck in my head; writing this was an attempt to excise it. the park i visualized was a real place - the park on ocean parkway by avenue p here in brooklyn. i spent a lot of time playing there as a kid because it was the closest park with actual park stuff like swings and slides. it also had lots of benches with the chess tables... though slamming those tables would probably break my hand, and not change the board much at all. there is a four-line portion of the poem where i weaved in names of two bands i was in (altar of flesh and dose of chaos - i think dose of chaos was together at that time). my "trying to kill myself" line was a reference to cigarette smoking. i was smoking a pack a day at that time; i assumed i would quit at some point and start again, apparently at 45. also, i think i had maybe heard "dust in the wind" once... maybe. i remember as i wrote that final line, thinking, "shit, i hope i get this right!"