Now as he stood on the 10th floor ledge of the infamous,
Chelsea Hotel, he appeared vague and bleary.
His thick face and torso was obscured by the moon light
shadows of the New York night skyline.

His legs, feet and hands were drawn out, extended in a straight line;
as one would stretch a cord or rope.

Groping the brick wall behind him, he felt alone, as he was
about to perform that most inconceivable of human acts.

He peered downward, into what seemed like an unfathomable chasm. The neon lights of the
Hotel Chelsea sign, seen above its striped awning,.the hubbub of people and traffic
on west 23rd Street below seemed unconcerned.

His eyes seemed intensely petrified, mumbling under his breath,
while all his attempts at balancing, his feet shooing away the pigeon's
obstructing his narrow walkway, were akin to a drunk on a high wire.

"So, it's finally come to this...

I thought it might. But, Damn...

I never thought I'd have the guts….

That's right, it took lots a guts to get up here.!

So high up now. I hate heights, always have...

So ******* scary; this suicide thing
gives me the creepy shivers.

Suicide, ah, there's the rub!

They"ll pity me, and say; 'Ah, the poor bastard.'

But not one of them knows. I've
studied the nut; then suddenly suicides voice beckons this sovereign gun-slave,
delivers my fate and destiny.

I'm about to find out what's behind curtain number one my friend,.
and I just bet all my goddamn swag that it ain't a new Hummer."


.
He took the plunge, and screamed in exhilaration,
hurled outward by gusts of cold Autumn wind.
His body descending like a new born
bird on its maiden voyage, fumbling fluttering arms
outstretched.



As he passed the hotel windows on the floors below, inside

he could see those absorbed with their lives, unaware of
his dilemma.

Inside the first window is Norton, burlesque impresario
and sex addict, strapped in a cage with two exquisite
dominatrices brandishing whips.

Window two: stood Suzy, crazed painter in love with
Chelsea Hotel Manger, Stanley Bard, painting her body.

Window three: Hiroya, eccentric Asian performance
artist, was putting on his wedding gown with wings.



Continuing to fall he rapidly passed window four:
Hawk, Swedish mystical painter, intently working on a canvas.

Window five: Ted & Jim, canine and human masters of the
ancient Chinese healing arts, practicing Chi Gong.

Window six: A small girl notices him, she is hunkered
on the back of a sofa peering out the window, her mother and father
with heads and backs turned toward a flickering
TV. he waved to the child and she waved back.
Then he crashed through the Chelsea Hotel awning.

Lifeless Frame.

Now laying face down on the pavement, pools of blood oozing
from his lifeless frame. Outside of the hotel, on the brick face, a
National Writers Honor Society plaque of former famous residents such as
Dylan Thomas, Arthur C Clark, Mark Twain; the lobby doors, the damaged awning
hanging from the hotel, torn from the fall. Distraught people passed by.

A ghostly figure, in a fetal position, appeared superimposed, He spoke
hovering over his ghastly remains.

"You know the living always knock this
death thing the hardest.

They'll prick needles and insert tubes in this muddled flesh,
invade my tranquility, but Ill be gone.

Ah Wait! Before I go, I must tell you the tale of my bloodied host.
You see, sometimes the end is only the beginning."


The Prince of Comedy Chelsea Hotel

Chelsea Fiction Trailer

In the Chelsea Hotel discarded dreams, are like, over
ripened fruit, Bohemian grapes of wrath..



Blew Karma Media Copyright 2003