pennsylvania

pennsylvania

autumn does everything but fall
this far up into pennsylvania
i drive up into the mountains that have
cradled me here
a wilkes-barre Almustafa
with more balls than insight
and no ship on the horizon.

i park off the road and look out
fireflies buzzing far off
fireflies waiting
blinking here and there
i smile at them

pennsylvania, i hear whispers
i know your pittsburgh
i know its college scene
and its pill district
i know its summers in sewickley
where the rich folk ran our dirty asses out
i know its starlight there
no light pollution at all
and i remember when i finally realized
that the rich even own the sky

and your west philly
with the younger ones throwing toughass glares
to the one jackass skinny white kid
walking down the street
trying to find a bar that won't throw him out
for his pale nervous stare
or pale nervous skin
then finally the old men and women
down on lancaster ave.
running errands for the bartender for
a glass of wine or a cheese sandwich
the toothless smiles
and dirty homeless dreams
finally young again for a second
billy holiday and ray charles on
the jukebox
and no one's ever even heard of
puff daddy.

and from here on this mountain
giant's despair
i can still see my old girlfriend
laying on the rock below me
looking up at me or maybe
just the sky
and i can remember the only time
wilkes-barre has ever been beautiful---
on the highway at night
the first glimpse of the smalltown city lights
glimmer and laugh
as we get back into town.

but enough about all that,
the fireflies are falling out
and i need something like sleep
pennsylvania,
i am yours
please do not forget me.

~jay morgans

---

when i had first written "pennsylvania," i emailed it to the world famous hugh o'connell, and this was his reply:

Subj: Re: 10
Date: 11/17/98 2:03:06 AM Eastern Standard Time
From: ******
To: jay morgans

that was absolutely beautiful skin. you were perfectly able to do what i've been trying to do forever now - trying to seemingly have a definate beginning middle and end, without actually having them - dick. j/k.
i hate to be a pretencious artfag poet and send a poem in place of poem, but what can i say, i'm lame.

- not interested. -

These, things,
turn, turn, and roll over
and flounder themselves
a million different ways from
right.
and from true.
The sun sticks
long
on the bricks, but can't
compete with the grey
too tired, been up too long,
can't find work, and
smoked my last cigarette
mornings.
The paper reads like the
recycled version of last week's news
that it's made from,
and all the money in the world
circulates, but never to me.
So I just sit here and
read, read, read.
Sylvia's butcher is looking
for a pardon, because he
knows his life is up before paperback.
Can you blame him?
he knew more about nature and animals
than real life,
poor sod.
So it's back to the grey
and the mindless mosaic of
brick,
where the sun just don't stick.
I think it's going to be
a long day.

copyright 1998 hugh o'connell

and that, obviously, is one of many reasons i love hugh so much.

~j