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X Continues Marking Many Spots

X Continues Marking Many Spots
                        by Odin Roark

Anonymous living suits many,
gypsy fever of the brain.

Seldom hiding in the shadows,
the glare of klieg-light attention
forever glares upon responsibility,
a disease to many,
a growing malady for most,
a welcome invitation to others.

Even back then,
at twenty,
the waking age,
at least for this X,
a Midwest-ignoramus,
a miscreant not even aware,
experience was about
to render raw and tender the face.

The vengeance proffered
gloriously fait accompli,
needing not the klieg light focus,
better mere awakening
by simpler means
like...
like,
a few beers,
so liberating,
so embarrassing.

This '56 student of students,
bathed in the drenching of
Kerouac,
Baldwin,
Miller,
Bergman,
Fellini,
Truffaut,
Godard,
Kieslowski,
Antonioni,
damned near drowning
in flailing need to see
and survive.

After all…

This was education,
totally missing
from cult religious dogma,
not offered in Aristotelian mode.

So…

Here X was,
always at the Plaza screens,
or the Waverly,
Saturday nights,
lasting forever.

X along with some buddy Y's and Z's
exited the art houses and made their way,
oh yeah,
to the Russian Tea Room.

Saved up rations of money…

Black Russians,
minimal water,
more Black Russians,
the world as we discovered it,
not the world as professed
All around us.

There
in Italy,
France,
Poland,
life seemed somehow more real
not caked over with candied syrup
like American’s urban seduction.

Oh how we longed
to be part of it…
make films.

But more important,
discover what it was all about,
this life
that for many

Was but professed by a God.

Those were times,
magical times
where peeling away the facade
was so delicious,
while we got wasted.

Along about 2 AM
Columbus Circle Books.

Sit on the floor,
thumb through 25 cent paperbacks,
always a Nietzsche,
a dog-eared Menninger,
a used Baldwin,
treasures we could afford.

‘Course…
We had to careful to save enough
for the subway.

We…

The X Y's and Z's hugged,
kissed with manly disregard,
Hell,
we didn’t care who was watching.

We were happy.
We were learning.
We were happening.

X dragged his weary ass up
the 4 flights
screwed back in the light bulb
old man in 4f always unscrewed,
figuring no one's gonna rob
a dark floor.

Simple shit.

But…
love him
to this day.
He was wise.
My first introduction to street cred
in spite of his oldness.

Next morning…

Ah,
Sunday New York Times,
Espresso,
Aspirin,

Growing up.

Learning the hard way.

Sublime,
One’s x’s.

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  1. Date: 11/17/2014 11:52:00 AM

    very nice Odin. I enjoyed the picture. Your poem a penned marvel. thanks for sharing this

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