NEW YORK CITY HARD TIME BLUES -Miguel Pinero NYC Blues Big time time hard on me blues New York City hard sunday morning blues yeah Junkie waking up bones aching trying to shake New York City sunday morning blues the sun was vomiting itself over the carbon monoxide detroit perfume strolling down the black asphalt dance floor where at the disco sweat drenched Mr. Mario’s summer suit still mambo-tango hustled to the tunes of fiberglass songs New York City sunday morning means liquor store closed bars don’t open ‘til noon and my connection wasn’t upping a 25 cent balloon yeah yeah reality wasn’t giving me no play telling me it was going to be sunday 24 hours the whole day it was like the reincarnation of the night before when my ashtray became the cemetery of all my lost memories when a stumble bum blues band kept me up all night playing me cheap F.M. dreams of hard time sad time bad time hell we all know times are hard sad bad all over well I thought of the pope welfare hopes then I thought of the pope again whose sexual collar musta been tighter than a pimp’s hat band yeah that brought a warm beer smile to this wasteland the mirror called my face ya see I left my faith in a mausoleum when my inspiration ran off with a trumpet player who wore double knit suits and stacy adam shoes this girl left me so broke my horoscope said my sign was a dead dog in the middle of the road yeah the morning will be giving up to the noon and soon I’ll hear winos and junkyard dogs howling at the moon made the shadows dance at jake’s juke saloon as a battalion of violet virgins sang tunes of deflowered songs men poured their fantasies of lust into young boy’s ears car stolen whizzed by crying hard luck tears in beers the love conflict of air conditioned dim lit motel rooms rumpled sheets with blood stains explain my yesterday night of mind the winter fell as hard as the smell of a brick shithouse in the hot south Om… but the hawk seeped into my home chillin’ my bones Om… it didn’t hear my incantation there has to be an explanation wasn’t it true when you Om… you are one Om… make me warm Om… is part of god Om… make the cold wind stop Om… perhaps if I Om… stronger Om… louder Om… LONGER OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM it didn’t work Om… I feel like a jerk I’ll try once more just to make sure OMMMMM maybe if I pleaded on my knees to J.C. he’d take heed of my needs and melt the icicles from the tears in my eyes but it was still cold I’m told if you sing “I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield down by the river side… down by the river side” I get no signal maybe if I do it bilingual “en la cruz, en la cruz yo primero vi la luz” oh come on chuito have a heart take apart the winter winds from me please… J.C…. OM… en la cruz down by the river side 10 hail marys I offer and 5 our fathers but the cold was no further than before I know it’s very rare when a prayer gets the boiler fixed OMMMMM yeah New York City december sunday morning was whippin’ my ass in a cold blooded fashion treatin’ me like a stepchild putting a serious hurting on me watching me bleed thru my sleeves as I tried to get high shooting up caffeine without saccharine that some beat artist sold me down on eldredge st. yeah but that’s the ghetto creed that the strong must feed yeah brotherman everything was happening faster than the speed of sound my whole seemed like it was going down I wonder who ever wrote that tune about being back on top in june nigger forgot about september and december now that’s a month to remember when each cold day becomes like a brick wall and you’re the bouncing ball yeah I kept seeing my fate being sealed by the smooth hands of the eternal bill collector who keeps rattling my door knob pressing my avon ding dong bell… my pockets were crying the blues telling me that I ain’t fed them a dollar in years and was it clear that they couldn’t hold anymore unpaid debts… traffic tickets… or promissory notes and hey that was when I wished I was back in L.A. laid back L.A. kick back L.A. smog town hollywood… driving down to malibu hollywood U.S.A…. hey hey USA hollywood seeding looking film producers smile at you over a burrito with taco bell breath explain the plots of fellini movies they aint ever seen hollywood… down to malibu at two a.m. if you get tired of cal worthington shit-eating grin you walk out on him hit santa monica blvd and watch the manicured thumbs caress the homosexual airs of rolled up jeans and silver buckles as westwood camaro rides very slow very low down western ave where neon lights scream the lastest kick in adult entertainment masturbation enters your thoughts when pornographic stars with colgate smiles whisper inane mundane snides of flicking your bic or I’m nancy fly with me national well I’m going nowhere got nowhere to go going nowhere fast got me a couple dollars a few dimes and plenty of time go into some bar on Alvarado and temple listen to some mariachi music or stroll into some dive joint off sunset sit in some naugahyde booth with some dishwater blond with sagging breats wearing a see thru blouse and listen to all her 1930 starlet dreams as she smokes all my cigarettes sure what have I got back at that refugee from a leprosy colony hotel but a one station a.m. radio feeding my neurological cells with those south street philadelphia blues she wants to cruise thru griffin park no thank you I’d rather listen to Linda ronstadt instead and the bartender tell dirty jokes and his customers recite 12% alcoholic aluminum recycled viet nam horror stories reading the signs of our time the obituary of a dying society the folktakes of yesteryear’s gonorrhea history hollywood going down to malibu malibu… pretty people and fonzi T shirts flex their muscles spreading spiritual bad breath and joe namath perfume yeah but I’m in new york city crying the junkie blues welfare afro hairdos sprout out of frye boots yeah punk rockers hitting on you for subway fare three times soon the mohair slick lines at penn station are getting impatient wanna get home to alone make the scene with a magazine or with a plastic doll cause the missus got another headache gaze at the farrah foster poster that adorns his horny teenage son’s walls yeah these days always have a way of showing up like rubber checks I wish I could cop a bottle of muscatel stroll thru the bowery with a pocket full of wino dreams but sunday morning in New York City for the junkie there ain’t no pity we just walk the streets with loaded dice and hear people say there goes miky miky pinero they call him the junkie christ…