The Last King of Greenwich Village

Prose autore, poet of the Modernist Era, womanizer, lifelong starving Bohemian artist in Greenwich Village, and deemed “too beat” by Ginsberg: Maxwell Bodenheim.

Young Max

Excerpt from Jameson – Faded Flowers

 All about her Greta my Greta supposing language won’t do but supposing it will have to do for now as there ain’t no other way I can express myself except expression through art of currency though I got no inkling no tactile respect for it that money though I admit like others I find myself grasping it lock tight dear to rib cage where beatings fire fist to fist in order to buy on account of buying soothes like a cooing momma to hers baby to soothe wretched meandering self-doubt the money paper the money cent I made the money but I don’t make one dime of it the money I inherited from the sorry bastard who did off Calhoon so many memories ago buried in shadow land sinking as nutrients for unborn flowers waking for their future bloom then come death surely that’s what we all try to avoid ecept my momma she buried through these here mind sensations like money and I feels the crumple of its dirtiness in my hand like a hard I look no I search in vexing want in those dark areas when I heards La cackling here to there drifting back to her corner like a drifting sail upon the drifting waves to nowhere but heavens to drift back in the corner only to watch us I and it nosh and when I heards La crying it appeared common like black and white folk in the brown South she cried so many a nights and stood so many a days she been a mother to me or maybe a loyal dog when momma decided to let God take her to the earth that clean soil rusting for good nothing no one can do bout that rusting with all other sorry folks who up and just decide to die for death’s sake and boy I knew she Miss La was banged up she was banged real good t’aint nothing I could done about it since daddy meant business at all times especially with Ludwigy Von B stringing his stroke ego it and good Ludwigy meant business so on account of its business La received its hard brunt of grief maybe that’s what it be called but I ain’t to sure yet its hard and pounding pleasure ensuring she moaned and pained those moans though I suspect and momma La always confessed my suspect suspicions were most always correct it was more pain than pleasure moans 



At this time of day – the time of sunrise – a stirring and rustling, a slew of bright sounds and chatter, popped from the hay-filled floor.

“Hay – pellets – hay – pellets – hay – pellets,” peeped one little voice, waking the others.

Another voice, this one groggy and irritated, implored, “keep it down, will you?”

A third piped in, “I don’t hear the shadow yet.”

“Augh! Will you keep it down already? Tying to sleep here,” said the grumpy voice, quite noticeably laced with the loss of sweet slumber.

Just as the first inhaled, ready to exclaim its sheer hunger to the world and those who would listen willingly and unwillingly, vibrating and rumbling sounds boomed from the outside of the barn. To the inhabitants, they felt as though their bodies rocked and floated with the barn, as if cushioned on clouds during a thunderstorm. They remained in blissful ignorance of whatever foreign object hummed so intently through their bodies.

Their stomachs rumbled together in unison, coinciding with the ruckus. All the inhabitants of the barn were now surely awake.

“I dream of pellets and hay,” said the first voice, who was imagining at that moment the overt sweet taste of Timothy hay hitting its taste buds. A series of chutting sounds emerged like a simmering pot of water. The inhabitants, who were chatting all at once, were unable to contain their anticipation.

The vibrating and rumbling quit.

“Food!” Said a rather excited fourth voice. The inhabitants agreed by wheeking. The wheeking roused the still quiet air into a party of high-pitched ecstatic shrieking, sudden and powerful like a dormant volcano surprising nature with an eruption.


Faded Flowers

Below is an excerpt from a new novel in the works…


Be-num— be-num— be-num… be-num— be-num— be-num…

My fine dandy fine, come take a look at mistuh Jameson Atwood Laurent. His reflection instills the urge to fornicate all reflections, tiny and large, though mines I been told, course, stands large.

Be-num — be-num — be-num — be-num!

My oh my, not a day he has aged, not a line has sprouted; a forehead smooth as birth a smile brighter than the finer days of youth. Youth? I defy youth. I defy youth and its wondrous glories, its privileges automated for those who do not deserve such, most times that is, I says I says. I say here Jameson

I turn the steaming water off but keep Ludwigy shining through the murky speakers. Ears spread open so wide I could hear my own heart thump. Never more. A drifting leaf in the wind.

As I was observing, a summer day couldn’t be more summer than this, topped with a breeze I may very well have prayed for if—  if that is— I believed in God and all, though I dabble with the thoughts of God when things don’t go my way. Such is life, such as most do. I look to God when I struggle, then like clockwork, look away when I flourish. God’s used to being used like a talented whore.

A needing man needs such things and gets them when implored Jameson take ‘em out for worshin. You hear? Take ‘em out

Swearing to momma, bless her lost soul so many a year ago, I just heard an old black lady’s voice thick as Mississippi from the yesteryear telling me to do something, like washing something. Something about taking them out. And washing.

Greta gram gram dear often informs me that I am losing my damned brain wacking and wackier each day. I never said she was wrong. She’s right about most things.

Wacking… now what does that— oh yes. Tidy must’ve gritted her teeth through that word a million and one times. Ol’ aunt Tildy. She found herself in a high and mighty place after Herman moved them to the countryside of England— who knows where in England, only described by the woman almighty as, “the bloody nice countryside of England”. Oh wacking golly goop. She be a Southerner like the rest of us: ashamed of our blood history still booming present, the blood on hands and chests. Geography can’t erase that history; not when it grains through blood and marrow, pulsing like an opened wound that won’t let you quit that won’t let you cut the noose that won’t let you just die already. Shoot the damn dog and put it out of its misery. The past is a kicker. Even the past don’t sleep.

We gots to cook in evenin’ Your daddy says so go on git

My hands fall into the sink where droplets hang like dew on fall then crystalized upon leaves, ice cold fear come winter gone leaves. Fall to winter, fall to winter.

I brace myself against that sink, gathering courage to turn old Ludwigy off. I finds it, so I lift the needle off the vintage Victrola lifting up to still air mucked and still, hanging swamp. Still.



The self in two, one in two. Divided attention, divided wants and results. Human lust divided into incongruence. Divided two, two for zero.

Uncertainty lingering shadow fixed upon image and reality. Reality is self, image is, image is? Image is what?

The divided is self-serving and no motivation for living.

Animals are not divided, nature is not divided. We want right, we want, we want, we want. Divided until end.