a lover's lullaby.

Whispers
long, soft, distracting
tap along
crossword puzzles and forgiveness.

Laughter
fades, haunts, remembers
by fire
exhausted mental breakdown foes.

Kisses
smile, deep, wondering
if by light
the turmoil can forever fade.

Loving
feels warm, bottomless
like lonely
weeping willows tilting in rain.

My mind
has fallen asleep.
My mind's eye
begins to cry gazing upon

a lover's lullaby.

- gypsy george.

a flicker in these Brooklyn leaves
a light breeze of reminder
that you were here, that you are here
teases me
guides me into a dead end.

crash.

the perpetuity of love -
you know, that 'moment' -
plays on repeat on my mind's record player
same song
sung to me a cappella.

the needle skips,
the melody lingers
as a rambling memento

trapped in the verse of an old blues lyric.

- gypsy george.

Upon a Social Commentry of the Current State of Our Situation, i.e. the Unemployed 'Educated' Generation.

I sit at my usual cafe table in Brooklyn. Autumn has arrived - crisp rain, a slight turn of leaves, the fragrance of looming holidays. Although everyone in this room comes from varied backgrounds, one thing connects us - we are unemployed.

Sure. We scrape together money - odd jobs, a phone call to our parents, busking in Central Park. College degree? Check. Laptops? Yup. On these laptops? Resumes and Craigslist job searches.

We're in our 20s-30s trying to fulfill the American Dream promised to us since childhood. However, all we see is a country operated by an older, 'hippie' generation - the one who declared peace and love. The result? Insane debt, AIDS, the Earth's slow death.

Beyond any political matter, this has become a survival issue. Yet, our generation is neglected, struggling to survive in a world built on credit and imaginary numbers.

Sure. The work ethic has changed. However, it is not as simple as tugging off to the local factory. The small-business man has no breathing room in today's 'global economy' (remind me: what do you need for a loan these days?).

Education has morphed into big business as well. Heck, college students worry more about how to pay and how high their debt will be than they do on learning (just a note to the reader: I will be in debt for my Northwestern University education until the year 2025 - at least! - and, oh yea...don't even get me started about establishing 'credit' and maintaining 'assets').

We've been defined as 'slackers,' 'apathetic,' 'dreamy.' Yet, everyone around me is practical, resourceful, knowledgeable, multi-talented, optimistic. We donate more, volunteer, and have the highest creative output the globe has ever seen. The Internet connects us to new cultures, new ideas, our own identity. We have established a community to aide in our suffering.

But, how do we - this generation - survive?

President Obama. We have translated our sense of community to Washington. But, my 'hippie' friends, this is only the beginning. One person cannot change the world, nor does he deserve the weight of the country's problems.

We're in this together.

Things won't change, revolutionize over night. Heck, our generation may never see benefits (I'm looking at you, Social Security). However, we don't care. We want future generations to look at us as a group that made the world better, not worse.

True. The 'hippies' were selfish. Their message was not. We understand the difference. Just one more thing...

Can I have a job?

Upon a Brooklyn Drizzle.

It's a constant drizzle - the rain here in Brooklyn. My mind is fluttering across the Rolodex of the past year or so. Introspection. Sure. Self-reflective? Maybe.

I spent the past few hours going through and organizing - literally - thousands of emails in my Hotmail account...mostly stuff I've been meaning to read, or will never get to 'truly' uncover. Regardless. I think seeing the course of my 'email' life the past year was astonishing. For those of you who know me well enough understand that 'gypsy' is a lifestyle. It's the way I do things - on a whim, spontaneous - that I travel often, that I never remain still. For those of you who have just met me, or are starting to get to know me, you understand this as well - perhaps more than others.

Every now and again, I will stop, look back and listen to my past in hopes to see if I can catch a glimpse of where I am going, where I may potentially end up. (Un)fortunately, today as I sit at my current cafe enclave, I have no clue for tomorrow. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. It's just foggy. Unclear. Unsteady.

Life has crept up on me the past six months. Rather, it has pounced upon me. Like a leopard. Like a fox. I find myself a man who is headed somewhere, but doesn't know where; I find myself an individual filled with love, but no love to share; I find myself a person living out his dreams, but constantly stumbling across nightmares. In times like these, I rely on two things to get me through the night: the words, life and wisdom of my namesake, my late grandfather, and the song, "What a Wonderful World." In these brief, peaceful moments I take a deep breath and realize that life is a wonderful tragedy, a struggle towards perfection.

Ultimately, it is in our own strife that life begins to pulsate, vibrate. Achieving life's goals mean nothing without the climb to that goal. Hard work. Dedication. Continuation. Living everyday as if it were your last. Simple words. True. However, this is the foundation of how I intend to mark every moment, to live every sense to its fullest, to struggle with joy as much as I struggle with pain. To quote Nikos Kazantzakis:

"Δεν είμαι το φως, είμαι η νύχτα· μα μια φλόγα λοχίζει ανάμεσα στα σωθικά μου και με τρώει. Είμαι η νύχτα που την τρώει το φως."

which translates to:

"I am not the light, I am the night; yet, a flame lingers in my innards and eats me from within. I am the night which devours the light."

- gypsy george.

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)

A Back Door Heat Wave

Summer in March, somewhere in the Valley. New Age Jazz music suffers its way through the back door of a heat wave. A hot cup of coffee only terrifies the mood exponentially. Children’s paintings hang on the walls, while the sun attempts to pierce through this mediocrity. The shadows, however, appear to have the upper-hand today.

Afternoon pouting has glazed across this café highway emerging like fiberglass expelled from a car after a head-on collision. The mundane wit soothes like an ice pick stuck in the mud of one’s soul. The clanging ice cubes attempt to harmonize with the New Age Jazz, but...harmony hates New Age Jazz. The cars buzz by along the Boulevard, beyond mere destination. Millions of souls dot this surface with only a few spots reserved for fortune and fame. An annoying cell phone ring temporarily distracts from the New Age Jazz. Some milk and foam ambiance.

Now, we are back to normal. Well, at least, Summer in March, somewhere in the Valley.

- gypsy george.

Huh? Huh.

pelting against my sternum, venom
concern for suppressed feelings
Emotions? Emotive
the plan was not supposed to

huh. the mental collapse led
Destruction? Destructive

potential lost at the whim of whiskey

I am the passion play anarchist
the capitalist’s communist preacher
Teacher? Teaching
I am a mass of pure mistake

it’s cold in my heart’s prison cell
I’m too old to try again – after this
Beyond? Gone
there is no other to her

no complimentary gift consolation
prize. a message to cupid –
Thank you? No thanks

I don’t understand what she’s
deciding,
who she’s letting go

Her lover?
Her friend

Her both.
Her self.

- gypsy george.

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)

A Laptop Maiden

An Internet café? No. Just a café. Mostly writers. ‘Script’ writers. The prose people are somewhere east of here, far east. Some students. But, mostly scripts.

The story? Product. Well, how to sell. How to be ‘it.’ How to be the one, who is ‘different.’ Depth? Maybe. But, mostly image. Well, image and a name. Well, at least, a name. Some students feel déjà vu.

A coffee, please? Large. No cream, no sugar. Black. Plain. Simple. A quarter profile emerges from behind the glow of a laptop. A PC, not a Mac. A lady hard at work. Frustrated. Intent on perfection. A flapping eye blink, a shift of her open-toed shoes, a stretch, some lip gloss, a turn over her left shoulder, staring, staring, wondering where her next thought will emerge.

She picks up her cell phone waiting, waiting, waiting. No one’s there. Pouting. Fixes her hair. She closes the laptop in latitude frustration, and opens a book. A book of “ZEN.” She talks to a stranger---another female---about her shirt (she has one just like it at home). She hunches back over her book, “ZEN,” taking on the position of prayer. Well, folding her hands on the table. She jots down a few notes---she’s left handed, by the way---holds, seductively strokes her pencil, and continues to read, intently read. The stroking has ceased as she has lifted her pencil near her forehead, then, another note. She drops the pencil, still focused on the written word, the prose, the book.

Her laptop remains closed.

- gypsy george.

My Last Gasp

Concrete discrete blood
misunderstanding
the root

the truth in absence
the dream along Lake Michigan

yesterday
is
a day of sweet

tomorrow
is
a day of

airport road trip prairie dresses

left for a stare
left for death
a breath

my last gasp

- gypsy george.

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)

The Swill, the Theory

Explosive strangeness jolts its way into the atmosphere of a rainy Monday only to find a dirty dime next to the shoe of decadence. A scruff mark defines a story, a tale saved from some other time. The empty, lonely feelings try to drive away the comfort, the glory of grooving to an Al Green song. Something must impress impressions when nothing else is left to impress. But, turn the other mind to the side one prefers. Fickle and pander towards a new meaning of trust. Take this swill with this theory and dig it deep into dust.

- gypsy george.

Πώς να είσαι εδώ/How is it that you are here

Πώς να είσαι εδώ
στο δωμάτιο του φεγγαριού;
καθρέφτης στο βουνό
κίτρινη Ζωή, η αγάπη

Πώς να πάμε μπροστά
χωρίς χορό;
η καρδιά πέφτει
σαν μια πεταλούδα
ανίσχυρη

κλαίω σαν ψίχουλο

η ψυχή ανοίγει την άνοιξη
η ανοχή δαγκώνει τής κόκκινες
γραμμές του δρόμου

Πώς να είσαι εδώ,
αγάπη...

translation

How is it that you are here
in the moon’s room?
A mirror on a mountain
yellow life, love

How do we move forward
without dancing?
The heart falls
like a butterfly
powerless

I cry like the soft part of bread

The soul opens Spring.
Patience bites the red
lines of the road

How is it that you are here,
love...

- gypsy george.

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)

Empty Beer Bottle Arm Tattoo

Annoying ‘girl’ voice.
A Cardinal’s fan.

Every floor pattern succumbs to the drunken loudness of an underground garage in Hollywood.

Crackling laugh at 9:44 pm.

Someone found me to be entering the scene, where I don’t belong.
The rally, the cry, the need, a creed, where we find the tunnel, is where we discover encouragement, lust, pity.

That high-pitched frame needs to come down to human planes, or some other casual, whimsical plea towards understanding mediocrity.

Some girls return from the Ides of Boredom only to find that boredom never left the place that they abandoned earlier, a dirty earlier, an okay earlier, a piercing fragment of a really, filthy evening, an upside down possibility of anywhere and everywhere. The shaky ground of not-knowing, uncovered, is how long a romance really should last.

And, remember that a tattoo lasts forever.

- gypsy george.

Life Is Unemployed

Life Is Unemployed

Black
is the feeling, the stretching
inside the social coup,

that thing,

which finds a way to destroy
very well-natured beings.

My

seeing-eye-dog-presence-of-mind,
the gazelle that wishes to lash me
down into misery

has left to suffer

like moths
in a firefly haze of executions
in August.

the search words on Yahoo!
don’t seem to work this evening…

justice
slid underneath a bathroom door
to find that

life is unemployed.

- gypsy george.

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)

A Puzzled Princess

So. You can’t decide where to place your winter, white coat? The seat you chose was uncomfortable and numb. So. You stare at all the people, all the drunks and unemployed men, wondering who’s the one to buy you drinks tonight. So. The rise, the sit down, the question, the lust. It’s all about finding the game, which will let you win every time. So. You like the CD Juke Box, the Boss, “Dancing in the Dark.” It’s fitting. You kinda’ look like a, somewhat, ‘young’ version of Courtney Cox, minus the 80’s clothes. So. You found a resting place for your coat, but not yourself. Too much variety of the worse kind. It’s like an election year---vote for the one you hate the least, or, at least, vote against the one you hate, which ever may suffice the mood. The sound of clanging, cheap booze bottles. A hat would, however, help you appear less ‘puzzled.’ So?

- gypsy george.

Last Exit in Missouri

Last exit in Missouri
no more time to know

the last exit,

where the sun begins
where the evening goes.

She’s frightened like an angel
flying with new wings

yet,
she knows the steps to heaven.

One by one,
she will dream.

- gypsy george.

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)

Skyward Lace

Godfather Enbestman torched a Camel Light underneath a fire escape off the corner of Lawrence and Broadway. He was contemplating the rust on the edges of the ladder. “Too many winters, not enough safety,” he thought. A white swirl emerged from the rooftop. The streetlights made it appear as aged lace. Godfather knew better; well, felt decent. One more drag. Time for another.

Echoes of the Green Mill waltzed throughout the neighborhood’s chambers. Al Capone’s ghost ricocheted from underneath a liquor store’s banister. A Vietnamese man, drenched in chicken grease, locked his storefront and headed for his 1992 Honda Civic. Another trace of skyward lace.

“Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.” A few blue sparks and a screech followed by, “Lawrence. This is Lawrence. Doors open on the right. Argyle is next.” Soon, some more rumbling fading to the north.

A shout. Wait. Shouting.

Some people tripped by Mr. Enbestman’s path. He nodded. They acknowledged him, and headed to the adjacent ATM. A powerful wind bursts onto the scene introducing himself as winter’s prophet. Godfather did not mind this. Wind’s introduction was short and, more importantly, humbled by the building’s whimsy. Besides, Godfather’s thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere not at the building’s edge.

No. He whispered a mouthful of meaningless words only to discover that non-sequiturs, in fact, can have meaning. At least, in the proper context. The cusp of youth tipped toward nowhere. Well, somewhere, if one was staring at the gutter. A puffy eyelid emerged from a shadow. She does not love him anymore. A remnant of skyward lace fell upon Godfather Enbestman like a shroud of Proust.

- gypsy george.