Damion Hamilton

Daydreams

If I can come out from under an electronic trance
And rise above culture and tradition
Then I can go to a place were there is music
And there is a symphony
In a baby blue azure
In the sun
In the trees
In the way that birds sing
And one has become youthful and feels invigorated
And the cars in the background make a bearable kind of
Noise, as all, the day is a playground
Feel the breeze… feel that breeze 
It tickles the hair of the nostrils
And there is no rush to go anywhere,
You can just sit on a bench and look at a tree, the sky,
A pavilion of ants, a crane lifting a steel beam
The air rises in the lungs and all is fair and runs on morality 
There is no troubling thoughts, this day
Just a vague longing, and the road’s open for all good
Possibilities
Then thinking of friendship, love and God
And while thinking of friendship, love and God, a stranger sits 
Down next to you, and he is an older gentlemen with a friendly
Countenance, he sits down to tell you a story… and boy can
He tell a story, he’s one of those types, as Time has been forgotten
And the ground spins beneath your feet 
And he leaves to catch a bus or a cab or something, just at
The moment in which listening becomes arduous
And one is alone again, yet not empty
Thinking or unthinking as music plays in the wind, in the sun, or God 
And there is this hug of warmth squeezing your whole being, making
You calm; but it doesn’t come from alcohol, drugs, television or sex,
It’s just there, pretty and naked
A cloud of felicity in the veins
This day, as one can imagine or pretend, as music plays here 
And somewhere

Where Are You Going?

Cars moving through the rain, on a Friday Night
Where are you going?
I would like to know your personal history
And about your job and your family 
And about the love, which broken and healed sometimes—
And it’s raining and it’s snowing
And it’s cold in the dark with the
Lights—all the lights, coming from our machines,
And this body, feels like a bird, with a broken wing 
Oh, how I must pause underneath
Some sun of glory
The price of gasoline has risen again
And the fumes from our cars do not smell too good
All the people, can you imagine hell?
Hell for me involves cars, cigarettes, 
Gas stations and a boss with the face
Of a statue, watching you while you wait:
Wait for the shift to end
Wait for love
Wait for the bottle
Wait for a park bench
Wait for a paycheck
Wait for that person, in a frock coat 
Of glory to arrive
Where are you going this lovely night?
I hope to make it home, this night,
In this old car
And lock the doors and get some rest
And hope someone publishes this,
As I’ll think about you 
And hopefully forget,
All the cars cars cars I’ve seen this day

Ants and Childhood

When I was a little kid
I used to get down on my hands and knees
And watch the ants
They were so strong 
Even though I did not know it at the time
 
They would be carrying the bodies of their fallen brethren
Or pieces of discarded food particles
And this meant nothing to me then
And they were so small; so I couldn’t think of them as being strong 
 
How could something so light in weight, and so tiny be so strong
I used to watch them fight each other
And this would arouse my anger even further
How could something so small be so aggressive?
So with my anger protracted I would smear their black and brown 
Bodies against the cement with my thumb
With no other reason, than that I could
Now I am nearsighted, perhaps from staring at the ants
On hand and knees
And this is karma in a way
 
But latter when the day changed into night 
And I could no longer see the ants any longer
Perhaps it was summer and the neighborhood kids used to gather
And run around and play hide and go seek
And we would laugh and scream and hit each other
Running as fast as we could 
 
And when we grew tired, we would lay down in the grass
And watch the stars
And the kids would just start naming the constellations:
That’s the Big Dipper, that’s the Little Dipper, and that one
Over there is Orion 
And I would just lay back and pretend to know
Even though I didn’t and look at the stars,
And I still can’t distinguish the constellations
 
And we would giggle and slap each other
And talk about what we wanted to be when we grew up 
Those nights, I found no intoxication like this—
The intoxication of childhood
And we lived in the ghetto and we were happy and poor
And dreamed of riches, even though we were happy without them
And no one could have told us what happiness was or what 
Millionaires were really like
 
And no one could have told us that we were rich
In a way, deep in our felicity and naïveté
 
We wanted to be something other
Than what we were
Those nights were impeccable 
And this night I wonder where the boys are now
Perhaps some are married, perhaps some of them are in
Jail, perhaps some of them have jobs in which they hate,
But I doubt if any of them are millionaires
 
And sometimes I sit and wonder if any of the boys
Sit back and remember how good we had it
With hide and go seek and looking at the stars
Those hot puerile nights
Even though we were not millionaires

Calendar Days

Monday
Tuesday
    Wednesday
     Thursday
             Friday
 
All run into each other to me
And I’ll forget about Saturday and Sunday
 
It’s all the same day it seems 
Burning and burning
Moving through these slums of flames
With awkward hands and awkward feet
It’s hard to smile while burning
 
I watched a disheveled man, quietly mumbling
To himself, get attacked by a dog while the 
Owner held the leash and laughed, the dog bit
The man, who screamed, then the owner pulled
Him off while people laughed and watched
 
And I must borrow from Charles Bukowski
People are not good to each other 
People are not good to each other
 
And people don’t change; only their numbers expand
 
And sometimes I will walk through the dull crowds
And will see my idea of an attractive girl walking
Down the street, the legs and the bosom working like 
Watery magic; and I’ll understand the duplicity of Fate
She can make me happy or miserable
 
And I’ll think about her and lust after a while
She walks through the village of my unknown,
Not noticing me
 
The strangeness of this life
The strangeness of this thing
 
And everywhere I walk this day
I was reminded of money or the lack thereof
As tame women walked with tame men
To go somewhere to watch something
With other tame women and other tame men
 
There were some shiny, new motorcycles and cars in 
The plaza and the crowds walked along and spoke to each
Other, while admiring the machines
 
I’m lost while walking through the crowds
I don’t understand people

Police officers
Auto mechanics
Drug dealers 
Shop owners
Bank tellers
Barbers
Janitors
 
In a barbershop where I listen to people talk about
Real estate, buildings, lofts, grocery stores,
Restaurants, clubs, jobs and profits
 
I am lost, as I listen

Invisible

People will often tell me that
It seems as if I am not there
Because I am so quiet
 
But I am often thinking about 
The next line, while trying to avoid:
Death
Poverty
And anxiety
 
And these windmills of poverty gets to me
After a while,  bright and knavish boys are off
Making money
Selling cars
Selling cellular phones 
Selling cigarettes
Selling insurance
Selling hamburgers and real estate
Selling music
Selling the dream
Selling royal rags of death
 
The boys sell and sell
And the boys have the cars and houses the women 
But the boys are very dull
 
Well the sun tells me I am interesting
And I believe the sun
While enduring a litany of blows from the days
 
I trod on not being able to be like those pearly boys
I would fall asleep if I were the boys 
Doing what must be done
 
A marathon of sensation runs though me
While I nearly collapse from poverty and yearning