Criminals and Saints

Sometimes when I walk down the sardonic, musical streets wishing for the end of war or for the righteous to be put back in charge of everything, I often think I could be anybody I want to be.

I could be Holden Caulfield wearing a red hunters hat with a smoke between my lips feeling lost, confused, a cold alienation brewing storms inside an entire generation, (flinging curses to a phony society who doesn't give a f**k about anybody) who turns around, anonymous one day- a lost nobody suddenly catapulted to the fiery onslaught of fame driving Salinger to the Bunker trying to protect his characters and himself from exploitation.

His fingers dancing stories from straw to gold.

His vivid wounds exploding between words.

His dreams of catching lost children from the edge of cliffs rising from the innocence shot to death in World War II.

A vast silence settling in bloody bones, almost criminal, almost holy.

Maybe both.

I could be Al Capone walking through the park at 3 a.m. with

a bottle of whiskey in my hand.

The sound of water rising in the creek.

A Rainy November and visions of young dames flashing knives

in the mind like a rumble fish in Brooklyn.

Pony Boy walks by with golden hair and moony tears in his broken eyes,

and says "Did you hear that Holden Caulfield just killed himself?"

I could be Henry Miller carrying Leaves Of Grass and The Decline Of The West in his God Gifted Hands.

A Wild igniting vengeance smoldering in his eyes for the Industrial Revolution, (a stealthy Iron hand waiting in secret to rule em all)

 and  America's dangerous military industrial complex bull s**t.

A burn for Paris lights seductively calling from afar.

Descriptive prose rising behind the eyes of genius.

Delicate worlds hanging in the balance of art and madness. Or both.

He mutters to himself,

" I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company.”  

Henry Miller walking through the fog gathering up information from the song and dance of life.

Henry Miller getting burned, his books on trial.

Uncensored and vile, formless and full of f**k you attitudes.

Criminals and saints rising from the heart like a catch 22 extreme.

I could dive from the sky with black bullet frenzies.

Words parachuting from deeply etched scars that still rip open in the heart from time to time saving people from jumping off bridges.

I could be an angelic being walking on clouds sending down inspiration for the hungry hearts seeking their lost dreams and souls back from the trampled battlefield of LIFE.

I could be lingering mist laying above the next plateau

hiding lost treasures with sly, effortless, cool and clean

 forest breath.

I could be the criminal who shot the saint.

I could be the saint who blesses the world and saves 40,000 criminals.

I could be both at the same time.