The Giant Forged (New York City 1930)
His face stares out in faded black and white,
ghostlike, worn and weathered skin; expressionless.
The builder, constructor of iron giants, his profession;
not for the squeamish or faint of heart.
Treading on the thin line of iron skeletal behemoth,
in sweltering sun, hazardous days spent in peril, his
livelihood; slave labor for pittance.
An inch to the left or to the right could be the longest
step that this builder ever takes, and the last.
Slung over his weary left shoulder, in grease stained burlap
bag, the tools of his risky exhausting trade, lay in wait.
Patently the tools wait for that precise moment of their calling,
where they shall be used to construct that looming metal
Tools to be hurled, like tiny metal daggers at the lumbering
sleeping giant that somehow must be awoken, to stand
erect, for all city inhabitants miles below; to marvel at.
* * *
Two Hat Annie
“The entire world is going to hell in
a hand basket”
Meanwhile somewhere at the dizzying
heights of madness, there she was once
again, homeless; on the mean streets of
a society at downfall.
She was known to all as “Two Hat Annie”
because of her mental illness, some said it
was schizophrenia, some said it was a split
personality brought on by the devil himself.
Annie would walk around town rummaging
through dark blue dumpsters located behind
supermarkets, for her next meal.
Sometimes she got lucky, sometimes not so lucky.
Sometimes she had to jostle with buzzards for the
“treasures” hidden within the dumpsters; and always
the rancid stench.
As Annie would saunter around town, she would mutter
to herself, if anyone heard her, and made a glib remark,
she would snarl at them like a dog with rabies, on a
particularly bad; day she would spat on them.
Annie jumped a homeless man outside a Wal-Mart one
day, making of with the five dollars in coins that he had
managed to collect from generous passers byes.
When Annie could remember the way, she would venture
to the local rescue mission for dinner, sometimes she
made a friend and got lucky behind an abandon building,
or underneath an overpass.
One fateful night, Annie met a leather clad Vietnam Vet
outside the local biker bar, he was lonely and pretty wasted,
so he got to talking with Annie, and decided to take her back
to his place.
Annie and the biker had sex on the floor of his dilapidated
one bed roomed apartment, they smoked a joint in bed, and
shot each other up with low grade heroin, not long after that
the biker passed out, leaving Annie to a fifth of whiskey and a
few wrinkled fifty dollar bills on the dresser.
Annie hung around the bikers place, watched some TV, had a
bite to eat and a shower, the biker snored; Annie cursed at him,
flipping him off as she made her way into the humid night air
While outside, Annie spotted an unattended, unsecured bicycle,
she finished off the bottle of whiskey, tossed it on the ground,
and took off alongside the seemingly lonesome highway.
Even though Annie’s prowess on the tried and true bicycle, wasn’t
what it used to be, it was still fairly good, especially at 56 years old.
However in Annie’s erratic,drugged, and drunken state it wasn’t long
before she met head on with disaster, the 18 wheeler never saw her
swerving in the middle of the road on her stolen rusted bicycle, until
it was too late.
* * * * *
She Lived on Debauchery Lane
Sad lady blues beneath the
purple neon lights,
she strolled onward into the
sleazy lanes, debauchery calling
her back into the cold arms of
the heroin clouded confusion.
That was her home behind the
battered dumpster, seeking asylum
in back washed beer bottles and
discarded food abandon by the young
horny supermarket clerks.
Someone said to the homeless lady
“Hey it’s Halloween tonight”
and someone said to the homeless lady
they laughed, she flipped them the bird
and hissed like a cobra.
The punks laughed again, as they pimp
strolled away into the stagnant moonless
Her face contorted as the mindless syringe
tightened, and as the spike caressed her vein,
she smiled, and sang in monotone
“I shall fly away, oh glory. I shall fly
away in the morning.”
She worked hard for the hit, blow jobs are hard
work, rock candy. Shallow souls Rock and Roll
fucked and bemused, overdose angels dancing
in her head, transfused and float away.
Her epitaph was tattooed in the pool of blood
that bled down her arm into the gutter, it read
“societies burden no longer”.
Wayne was born and raised in the sunny state of Florida,
yet has lived from state to state and from country to country.
Wayne has been published in various publications over the last
23 years including “The Cannon’s Mouth” “Poets Espresso” “10 K
Poets” and “Harbinger Asylum” he can be found on Face Book at
the following link.