d.r. deutsch




                              Ray walked the streets as

                              Peter Pitowski with a thirty-eight

                              special tucked into the waistband belt

                              across his back.

                              He claimed to be an importer-exporter

                              of rare antiques and other exotic merchandise

                              but in reality, he was but a common thief.


                              Ray-Pete would steal anything that took

                              his fancy, from shoplifting a comb and brush

                              from the local drugstore to an antique pitcher

                              Ming vase or Japanese netsuke from a fine art



                              He would reserve his specialty for items that

                              struck him as both cool and costly,

                              and after careful planning, would nick the item.

                              Except, when the fascination became so great

                              that he would just grab and run, as unplanned

                              spur-of-the-moment flashes.


                              Well, one day Ray-Pete had grabbed a Paul

                              Revere silver tray and was fleeing down the

                              street, the antique dealer came running out of

                              store and yelled, "stop thief."

                              Of course Ray- Pete didn't stop but kept

                              running just as two cops were emerging

                              from the doughnut store, each with

                              powdered faces and two full bags.

                              They heard the commotion and started to

                              chase Ray-Pete, who took out his pistol and

                              pointed it at the pursuing police who

                              unholstered their Glocks and with a

                              fusillade of bullets, like a deadly hailstorm

                              shot Ray-Pete dead, as four slugs pierced

                              his chest and back. He died instantly on the                                                                             spot.

                              The silver tray was never recovered.







                  There is danger in every

                              word that is spoken.

                  Especially since we speak to

                              fill a void,

                              pass the hours,

                              assert our identity,

                              pretend we are truly literate

                              or connected to someone else.

                  Then when no one is present

                  When we are truly alone,

                  We just make noise to keep out the silence

                              waiting to swoop in and

                              in a vengeful act, devour us.

                  We like to hear ourselves talk

                  So we will know we are alive.

                  This is the institutional empty

                  Environment that we live in.

                  Hounded by a roaring silence that

                              threatens like a panther

                              stalking in the darkness.

                  Only visible when the two yellow eyes

                  Catches some available light and the

                  Full recognition is realized that we are

                  Merely the prey of the lonely void,

                  We are born and trapped in,

                  Like a carefully constructed maize

                  We wander through, calling out to

                  Any and all who will listen,

                  "Help me, recognize me, love me."

                  A life spent wandering, looking

                  Fitfully, furtively for a measure of solace.







                                                The day dies

                                                Night is born,

                                                A new entity

                                                Full of promise,

                                                Complete with unknowns,

                                                To be shaped by

                                                            what we do

                                                            what we say

                                                            where we walk

                                                            what passes us by

                                                            how we react.

                                                Each a tiny piece of

                                                The puzzle forming a

                                                Whole picture like a kaleidoscope

                                                Locking into place, the glass

                                                Particles overlapping one another

                                                Fixed in its pattern as

                                                Night unfolds before us

                                                And we step onto the moving band

                                                Of time and take our seat in the flow,

                                                Traveling through the daily

                                                Interactions, distractions and interchanges

                                                Until the brightness of morning appears

                                                On the horizon and the band shifts once again.

                                                We set off on a new passing adventure,

                                                Passing new people, places, structures.

                                                We deal with this new adventure as the

                                                Clock hands shift again and again,

                                                Then at the appropriate time

                                                We remove ourselves from the flow

                                                And sink into a reverie seeking

                                                Refreshment and renewal in order

                                                To remount the flow and move

                                                Onward once again into that

                                                Mystical force called the future.







                        What is it that we see in the world?

                        Do we all see the same thing?

                        One vision?

                        I hardly think so.

                        You see what you need to see,

                        Like a spring in the desert

                        For your thirst,

                        To me a mirage

                        That has no existence

                        Even as you drink your fill

                        I remain with unslaked thirst.


                        We respond to blue,

                        And I see the yellow in an orange blaze.

                        Being responsible for what we see and do

                        Needing to stay on our own track and

                        Consequences be damned.

                        Write it in our own book

                                    and sign off on it

                        A receipt for thoughts or actions

                        Given or taken and

                        Pay the piper when we must

                        Without shirking, facing it and

                        Marching in the parade,

                        By jumping on the float and

                                    riding and waving to the

                                    homey crowd,

                        Celebrating whatever we choose

                        Because it is what we choose

                        And that makes it ours and

                        Is fuel in order to go forward.








Tunnels, bridges, alleys

Roads, streets, intersections,

Lights, sewers, sidewalks, buildings.

Construction, construction, construction.



Sleek facades, stubby buildings, steel skeletons,

Rooftop gardens, tall slender spires, water towers,

Window panes, apartment houses, stores, strip malls,

Giant cranes carefully wading in asphalt carpets dipping

And dipping for its meals.


Construction Sounds:

Clanking, chugging, drilling, squealing, dinging, honking,

Sirens, motors, exhausts, jackhammers and backfires.

A cornucopia of symphonies and cacophony.



Wood, concrete, iron, steel, aluminum, asphalt, granite,

Rods, glass, cobblestones, cement, stone, pavement, pilings.

Every surface covered, every size, shape, and color represented.


Modern Robber Barons:

Beacons of industry, commerce, sales, banking, libor,

Trading and exchanges, barters, hedge fund sellers, interest,

Broker-dealers, Ponzi schemists, insurance, derivatives, viggorish.

A capitalistic monolith thriving on the poor.



Walking, running, eating, shopping, talking, driving,

Banking, laughing, crying, hollering, gesturing, busy,

Holding hands, skating, skate boarding, delivering.

Doing activities they normally do.


Transported by:

Bicycles, trucks, vans, taxis, cars, limousines, hearses,

Fire engines, cop cars, skate boards, buses, legs and feet,

Wheel chairs, in-line skates, pedocycles.

Moving, traveling, rushing, always on the go.






Are we all marks.

We are all marks.

We observe the world

Through or personal kaleidoscopes

And think and feel

That it is real

When itís only a personal

Translation of a twisted

Reality mirage

The heat of our desert.

And what transpires

Is real when in reality

Our markdom is set

Because the system is

A rigged set of levers and

Pulleys controlled by

The forceful and powerful

Roaring fires of blast furnaces

The steam driven pistons

That turn the wheels

That smooth the way

Unchallenged but constantly

Fed by the chattel of our

Beings and possessions

That we think are the

Prizes and spoils for

The loyalty we owe

But are merely the crumbs

For our participation in the

Corrupt transactions

On all levels

Like a seven layer

Moldy cake.





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