Outside New York Bagel,
he told me to go fuck myself,
a kid whose words carried bulging biceps
though his arms were nothing more
than dull pencils.
He was angry, sitting on a bike that looked brand new.
Maybe mom and dad were drunks,
maybe he thought my white skin was a flag
to cut down and burn.
I told him everyone is angry these days
as he rode off.
I hoped he wasn’t the next found dead in an alley;
his bike was tempting treasure for those in need.
Jim Senetto about Jim Senetto
My father was quiet; loving, provider but quiet…I never knew a grandfather, his side, or his brother lost at 28 and I was told not to ask. So quiet I was…me, the quiet one, second echelon in a group of friends…quiet in the confessional booth I was brought to…why tell a stranger, in a dark booth sitting behind mesh, my woes, thinking it just might be his woes were worse than mine (I’ve later learned, some in collars should have sat on the other side of that mesh window, confessing). I was drafted in ’66, taught how to kill strangers and my mouth began to question why and with some friends now dead from bullets of insanity, I became alive, vowing never to be as quiet as my father. He had his reasons, I’m sure, old school and all of that, but I had to break the chain. Art, photography, music, poetry is my voice and it’s all fair game…say it loud, some will listen and that is good enough for me.