Beneath the Bridge
I sit in my apartment dreaming
of the women I’ve been with
whose names I never knew,
their memories completely
undisturbed by their absence.
And the heroin in Washington Heights
is like a fine wine.
The television glows beneath the window,
with the George Washington Bridge lit up
like a crucified thief.
And the heroin here in Washington Heights
is making me nod.
Black sockets in the skull in the mirror,
cheap sunglasses and a long sleeve shirt
with blood flowering halfway through the arm.
And the heroin here in Washington Heights
is cheap and pure.
There’s a whore on the block
who walks with her head
contorted to her hips
when she smokes crack.
Her name is star.
And the heroin here in Washington Heights
is killing me slow.
I might not ever see the Eiffel Tower or the Pyramids,
because when you shoot dope in Washington Heights,
it’s where you were born
and it’s where you’re gonna die.
But the truth is
I bet neither one is all that spectacular
and probably just inspires
that hollow feeling
in the pit of the stomach
that comes on
whenever you know
you should be feeling something
but you don’t.
And in the winters, the snow comes down,
and within a day or two,
it turns the color of the soul of this city.
It soaks up the sick.
And all there is
is the broken men and women
burning beyond fire
sucked up into the black heart of it
relentlessly.
of the women I’ve been with
whose names I never knew,
their memories completely
undisturbed by their absence.
And the heroin in Washington Heights
is like a fine wine.
The television glows beneath the window,
with the George Washington Bridge lit up
like a crucified thief.
And the heroin here in Washington Heights
is making me nod.
Black sockets in the skull in the mirror,
cheap sunglasses and a long sleeve shirt
with blood flowering halfway through the arm.
And the heroin here in Washington Heights
is cheap and pure.
There’s a whore on the block
who walks with her head
contorted to her hips
when she smokes crack.
Her name is star.
And the heroin here in Washington Heights
is killing me slow.
I might not ever see the Eiffel Tower or the Pyramids,
because when you shoot dope in Washington Heights,
it’s where you were born
and it’s where you’re gonna die.
But the truth is
I bet neither one is all that spectacular
and probably just inspires
that hollow feeling
in the pit of the stomach
that comes on
whenever you know
you should be feeling something
but you don’t.
And in the winters, the snow comes down,
and within a day or two,
it turns the color of the soul of this city.
It soaks up the sick.
And all there is
is the broken men and women
burning beyond fire
sucked up into the black heart of it
relentlessly.
Frozen
I used to sit
thin and hungry,
eyes wild,
and listen to
What a Day for a Day Dream
by the Lovin’ Spoonful
over and over.
It must have been
six months on repeat,
living on a steady diet
of intravenous cocaine
and 99 cent TableTop pies
until I had to find another song.
I still remember the frozen feeling
starting in the back of the throat
and the instant tinnitus
after the plunger on the needle was pushed in.
The vocals of Joe Butler
shifting in and out
and the sound of the organ
took me into ecstasy like a Gregorian chant.
I can’t remember
the schemes and cons
but I do remember
What a Day for a Day Dream.
That song was all that stood between me
and reality.
And as long as that song was playing
I knew I would be fine.
thin and hungry,
eyes wild,
and listen to
What a Day for a Day Dream
by the Lovin’ Spoonful
over and over.
It must have been
six months on repeat,
living on a steady diet
of intravenous cocaine
and 99 cent TableTop pies
until I had to find another song.
I still remember the frozen feeling
starting in the back of the throat
and the instant tinnitus
after the plunger on the needle was pushed in.
The vocals of Joe Butler
shifting in and out
and the sound of the organ
took me into ecstasy like a Gregorian chant.
I can’t remember
the schemes and cons
but I do remember
What a Day for a Day Dream.
That song was all that stood between me
and reality.
And as long as that song was playing
I knew I would be fine.
Nights Like This
Some nights you need a music
like no instrument can play
and a woman
like the vision of a ghost.
But sometimes you must settle
for the rain
and a feeling inside
that your suffering might have meaning
though meaning does not give it purpose.
Some nights you must escape
by any means possible
the poison
you must consume
to erase what feels like hunger,
but cannot be relieved by bread.
like no instrument can play
and a woman
like the vision of a ghost.
But sometimes you must settle
for the rain
and a feeling inside
that your suffering might have meaning
though meaning does not give it purpose.
Some nights you must escape
by any means possible
the poison
you must consume
to erase what feels like hunger,
but cannot be relieved by bread.
Send a Postcard
I fantasize about Greyhound buses
and international flights
to third world jungles
with cheap beer and cheap women,
with cheap life
and no air conditioning.
There is nothing that can’t be solved
by complete and total extraction,
and there is no gravity in my human heart
to get strung out on.
If my escape leads to collapse,
and my hunger turns to starvation,
I will evaporate before I return.
and international flights
to third world jungles
with cheap beer and cheap women,
with cheap life
and no air conditioning.
There is nothing that can’t be solved
by complete and total extraction,
and there is no gravity in my human heart
to get strung out on.
If my escape leads to collapse,
and my hunger turns to starvation,
I will evaporate before I return.
The Starvation Paradox
You can find a little bit of joy in this life
even in the most low life
scumbag ridden places.
More often than not,
it is the times you had nothing
you will think of
before your head hits the pillow.
The emptiness
will sustain you when you are full,
when you grow
fat and lame,
when you have lost enough
to succeed
and have no fear of losing-
don't forget
everything can be taken.
I would give anything
to go back and lose everything again
even more spectacularly.
To rot
and rant
and foam
and lose my mind
completely.
I would go further,
even now as I descend.
even in the most low life
scumbag ridden places.
More often than not,
it is the times you had nothing
you will think of
before your head hits the pillow.
The emptiness
will sustain you when you are full,
when you grow
fat and lame,
when you have lost enough
to succeed
and have no fear of losing-
don't forget
everything can be taken.
I would give anything
to go back and lose everything again
even more spectacularly.
To rot
and rant
and foam
and lose my mind
completely.
I would go further,
even now as I descend.
|
Ben Jorisch is an author, poet, and philosopher based in New York City. He holds an MFA from the City College of New York and is the author of the poetry collection Electric Barbwire Tomato (2013). Ben writes with a raw, prophetic voice—combining the brutality of lived experience with a cosmic sense of destiny and awakening.
|
