Convergence

Maybe I was 5 years early.

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord. And I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life, oh Lord” Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lord, oh Lord” –In The Air TonightPhil Collins

Not long ago my mailman told me 3,000 dolphins had washed up dead on the Peruvian coast. No one knows why or how but there is speculation. Conservationists claim the cause is acoustic testing offshore by oil companies. If true, it’s yet another awful price we pay for our nation’s careless heroin oil addiction.

Mailman believes it’s the result of global warming, and, as do many authors hawking doomsday books, it foretells a lead up to a realization of the Maya’s “Long Count” calendar, marking the end of a 5,126-year era; the end of humankind we should expect on Dec. 21, 2012. Personally I…

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Dead Air

Wishful thinking…

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too. “ — Paulo Coelho, “The Alchemist”

My woman, prostrate on our bed, is crying; scared she says, that being a woman, a Mexican and disabled, three things she’s heard the president-elect sling hateful rhetoric at, she’ll be deported, or shanghaied to some internment camp to be used as forced labor to build his promised border wall. I tell her not to worry; that such notions are absurd. But since that was the same advise I’ve given her for the past six months, a mortal lock certainty America would never elect such an odious character, she’s less than sedated by my views.

I have mixed feelings. Part of me believes the genius of our three equal branches of government, despite all being controlled more or less by one Party, will restrain the worst impulses of the…

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Indian Summer

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“The Indian Summer of life should be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season; infinite in wealth and depth of tone, but never hustled”. – Henry Adams

Returning to my comfort station, reclining as calm and safe as a man watching a snow storm from his fireplace, resplendent in my throne as form-fitting as a dentist’s chair; the Technicolor movie that never ends burns outside my writers window; bringing me once again to a level of consciousness and sense of detail rarely met. The weather seer on the magic box tells me this very day brings forth the peak of Fall’s funeral colors.

Autumn leaves empty of promise as a woman past the magic of birth cascade choreographed in a wonderland as quiet as asylum walls, yet hot as the boiler room of the damned; death colored egg yolk yellow and shot through with veins as red…

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A Drum is A Woman

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“Give me the beat boys and free my soul; I wanna get lost in your rock n’ roll – and drift away”. Drift Away – Written by Mentor Williams – popularized by Dobie Gray.

Big Pauli and me skip-tracing a venue he’d told about somewhere in the bowls of downtown Oakland late that evening; clicking our Italian heels across the concrete sidewalk on a warm, damp, narcotic American inner-city night, glided under a bruised autumn sky crackling with atmosphere; the energy sending lighting bolts scurrying above our heads and sparks beneath our feet. We rambled serpentine passed rundown warehouses in Oaktown Cripps territory; Asian kids; hip-hop rappers with one foot in their graves and beefing mightily with the premiere Black gang, the 11 Five Mob; kept our heads on a swivel.

The music seeping from the storefront styled rat trap building cascaded; enveloping us in the rapture of a celestial choir…

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Searching for Camelot

Nick Masesso, Jr.

“Anybody here seen my old friend John? Can you tell me where he’s gone? He freed a lot of people, but it seems the good they do die young. I just looked around and he’s gone.” Abraham, Martin and John – Dion

When the shots rang out in Dallas the sound was shrouded by daydreaming a’capella sounds from Marta’s passionate horse-husky voice; whisky whispers syncopated in rhythm with the pulsing of her soft full pendulant breasts; hard pressed against my bare chest in the fogged-up windows of my 57’ Chevy Nomad. Astral-traveling memories of our lovers rendezvous on sandy barren secret back streets in our tiny Midwestern childhood home made me forget I was an Illinois’ captive; locked tight away in their juvenile detention facility outside the gates of Statesville Penitentiary in Joliet, Illinois. It was November 22, 1963. In their clutches for a year now; I was fifteen years old.

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