What A Great Summer…!!!

I just wanted to say ‘Thank You’ to everyone who bought books this summer at the Van’s Warped Tour festival. It was wonderful to chat and properly meet you all.

Currently I am working on my new project. I love it. My hope is to finish it this Fall and prep it for it’s life’s journey this coming winter. More updates on this to come.

I have also recently restocked my back catalog of books. Check them out here: http://www.davidmcwane.com/store/

Take good care everyone. Okay, now it’s back to work…!!!

David McWane

Poem Of The Day:

You Americans


You may use the term

– “You Americans”

if you like


But I must tell you

the credibility of your logic

decreases by half


Like when I hear the unevolved say

–       “You people”



your country’s name

your heritage name


your sex

in the sentence


“You Africans always…”

“You Chinese just think you’re…”

“You women can’t stop…”


However if it rings


“You Americans always…are so hospitable.”

“You Americans are just…hilarious.”

“You Americans can’t…keep making me laugh like this.”


Then continue starting sentences with

– “You Americans”


But if you are sour inside

And want to make a global point

Run the sentence in your head first

Think and be patient with what you want to express


Then maybe your logic will be heard

And not dismissed

by the ancient art of profiling

Making your credibility increase by half



maybe you just shouldn’t drink so much in public

– From the book Modern American Gypsy, found here: http://www.davidmcwane.com/store/

Four Poems: We Want The Red Head, My First Dinner in Heaven, Red Hood Girl & The Running Faucet Behind My Back


We Want The Red Head

“We want the red head!”

“We want the red head!”

The bar screamed alone


“We want the red head!”

“We want the red head!”

She felt, special, pretty and proud


“We want the red head!”

“We want the red head!”

Atop the table she took a bow


Then did a dip

Spun her dress and winked

Then eloquently sat back down


My First Dinner in Heaven


I want Shepard and Banksy to paste the walls

Dali to arrange the furniture

Rockwell to prepare dinner

And Picaso to choose the wine


I want Van Gogh and O’Keefe to choose the flowers

Gould to play his piano

Edith Piaf to sing

And Ms. Audrey Hepburn to be my girl


I want Dr Suess and Gorey to trade stories

Jane Goodall to inspire us

Fred Astaire to teach us steppin’

And Arno Rafael Minkkinen to photograph us all


I want my mother and father to be kissing

All my old pets to be young and playing

My old teddy bear living

And all my heroes as proud as anything


I want to eat, drink and laugh with everyone

While Rembrant and Basquiat work together,

Drunk off hot wine, painting us all

At my first dinner in heaven


Red Hood Girl

Jane always spoke

Of having a red hooded cape –

Like Little Red Riding Hood’s cape

And after her mother came back

From her year in Paris

She had a present for Jane –

The bright red hooded cape

It was long and soft

With long strings to tie around her neck

Jane loved it

She wore it to school

She wore it to church

In front of the television

And even to bed

But one day, when Jane and her old Irish setter Richie

Went out for an adventure

Richie decided the best way to escape the evil flying monkeys

Was to jump into the brook

And roll around in the mud

After Richie bopped back over to Jane

With a muddy nose

Muddy paws

And mud clumps under his belly

He did his shake

And mud sprayed everywhere

Richie noticed that

Jane looked devastated

Quickly she brought Richie back to the brook



While muttering

Washed off the rest of the mud

Jane then tore off her red hood

And used it to

Dry Richie fluffy again

That way

When the two of them got back to the house

Jane knew

It would be her

That would get




the running faucet behind my back

hiding my mind

is like holding a running faucet

behind my back

sometimes I can get a thumb in

which makes ideas and words

spray violently wild

but most of the time

it just gushes free

soaking me

and the poor,

poor people


happen to be around


All four poems are from the book, Let The Poets Come & Stop Me available here: http://www.davidmcwane.com/store/

Thanks for reading,

– David


This is the last section of David McWane’s Modern American Gypsy. Poems will continue to be posted daily.

Todays stories start in our Sprinter driving through France, then heading by boat to England, to finally fly home back to New England.

Enjoy & thanks for reading!

David McWane


France to England


            Even if spirits are high, after two months on the road, men need to tip-toe round each other.  It is the time they come together in their exhaustion, or turn away from one another for survival.  If you smell something rotten in a man after two months, best keep your distance, or it’ll be your throat he cuts.

We were bound for the 9:00PM ferry from France to England, just pulling out of a roundabout when the police lights came on.  One French officer came to the left side of the Sprinter and rolled his eyes when he realized the driver was on the right.  His back up stayed back right.   The 1st officer spoke aggressive French to us, and when we told him we only spoke English, he continued his monologue until he felt validated or felt the emotional cadence of his message would at least be absorbed by us men.  When the tantrum was over, he spoke to us in English.  He asked us many questions that profiled us as the king pin drug dealers of western Europe.  However, the only thing we were guilty of was sinful thoughts.  We were asked to follow their car back to their stations one-hundred meters away.

The station looked as if it was an abandoned war bunker, crude and useless.  There were plastic gloves and ointment out for effect.  All the table tops were wet, with small puddles.  Our bags were all brought in and they tore through them like a fourteen year old boy would go into a garbage bag with the promise of a dirty magazine inside.  We had now missed our ferry and would have to drive extra miles tonight to be able to make the performance the next day.  It was not the time to test us, it was not the time to push us.

Men from New England know to give people of authority a tea spoon of sugar of respect or they will find themselves downtown.  But not us, not now, not tonight.  Seven Americans and one tired Englishman stared at these four French officers as if we could see the cut of their throats was just passing their vocal chords.  And they could feel it.  Our silence, direct eye contact and quite focused answers tells any man, violence is a breath away.

“Whose is this, whose is this, speak up,” one of the officers grabbed a bag of aspirins mixed with vitamins and held his trophy high.

“It’s mine officer,” I stepped forward and turned my shoulders to the man, an unneeded act and everyone in the room knew it and the men know how I am when I’m tired, when I’m angry.

“What is this!  Explain!” the officer said.

“Aspirin,” I said.  “Head aches.”  I pointed to my head and winced.

The officer dumped the pills on the table and his men, save one, surrounded the contents, poking with pens.

“What is this?  Now you think about what you say, because what you say now will be for our records.”

“Aspirin, for headaches,” I said in the same tone.

“What, do you all then get headaches?” one of the men said sarcastically and they all laughed a little.

“Yes”, I said.

“Imagine that,” one of the men said under his breath.

The officer went over to the man and said, “Ce qui?  Speak up.”

“I said they’re for headaches.  Aspirin,” he replied.

At this point they knew they didn’t have anything on us and we knew what that meant.  We were taken to a room to stand, to stand for a very long, long, long time.

            Two hours later they came back and let us go – but not soon enough to catch the next ferry.  We would now be six hours behind schedule and four hours away from sleep, if any hotel was to be open in England by the time we reached it.  Our tribe was sound though; the officer’s shenanigans brought us closer.  We were solid men again; one.




            Once in England we got pulled over.  The two bobbies were very kind.  They explained that it looked like our Sprinter was too heavy and that they wanted to take a look at it, at the next off ramp.  The interesting part is they wanted us all, save Dale, to ride in two different squad cars to the off ramp.  “We don’t want to go and see the tires give lads, then the axel drop and find you lot barrel rolling.  Ride with us, c’mon then, we’ll take a look, if all is fine, you can be on your way.”  The coppers were honest and truly concerned for our safety.

In the back of the car I said, “Officer may I ask you an odd question?”

“Of course,” he replied.  “Go on then.”

“The night sticks you carry are great.  What, do they just latch on there to your belt and snap off when you need them?”

Surprisingly the officer said as he pulled the baton off and handed it back to me, “Exactly, yah, they’re quite powerful, just flick it and the rest comes out.”

His weapon was now in my hands.  I flicked it and was holding a serious brain crasher.

“Brilliant ay?”

“Yah,” I said as I swung it around a tad; like a child would.

As I handed it back to him, the officer said, “Cheers mate.”

All I could think of is how could he hand me, a stranger, his only weapon and how that would never happen in the States.  You can get thrown to the ground for just looking at an officers weapon.  I could have hit him, strangled him, anything.  There are so many things us American don’t understand, because we basically live on an island and are too deep within ourselves, our sole culture, at this point to understand thoughts, ideas and values that are different from our own.

At the same time,  I ain’t saying he should have given it to me; that was kind, but a bit dumb.  But a good man is hard to come by these days.  A man that doesn’t bark at other men, like dogs do, but good men, men who live by practical wisdom, men who care for others, because that is what’s right.  And those officers we’re just that.  Good men.


            Laundry.  Laundry can be more important then a woman – eventually.  8:00AM. Seven Modern American Gypsies and a Modern English one loaded our vinegar smelling cloths into washers, followed by the beautiful washing powder, scooped and tossed in by the kind middle eastern young man that owned the Laundromat.  We were in South London – Gipsy Hill.  That’s how it’s spelled.  We all sat, drank coffee, some smoked and chatted up the young owner.  He liked us.  We liked him.

“Been traveling, I can see,” he started.

“Yes, for a while now,” I said.

“I love traveling.  It is the only way to stay happy.  Fresh.”

“I agree.”

            The young owner told us he’d watch our things and that there was a breakfast spot a couple shops down called – The Gipsy Rose.  That’s how it’s spelled.  The place was small.  The smell of eggs, bacon and coffee warmed our souls.  We took a table by the bricklayers, construction works – the only other type inside.  We ate hardy, for we didn’t mind spending our left over, heavy English coinage.  As we scooped beans on toast we spoke of the excursions high times and low times.  It was easier to laugh at the low times now that Boston, our home, was a few days a way.  We razzed the men that kissed the late night women and they razzed us for not.  We asked Dale what his plans were for gathering his tossed out belongings.  His mate told him that he was going to let him stay with him until he could properly find a new flat.  After that we dined in silence.

The young owner had folded and bagged our warm clean clothes.  It was a move that was truly kind.  We gave him some copies of our record albums and the joy it gave him made it even.

“I hope to take holiday next year with my wife.”

“Well if you go to the States , let us know.”

“Be well.”

“Take care.”

Nothing on our front burners, we headed to a pub – the Paxton.  There we drank down Guinness.  I bought rounds for the men that were out of dosh.  It was very dark inside.  Seedy.  The windows were covered by velvet curtains.  In the small amount of light that did sneak into the Paxton, we spoke more about the trip, about the shows and about The Lovers of the Sound.  Different men had different favorite nights.  Mine was at Botafar in Paris.

“Oi, I have a friend stopping by,” Dale said, getting off his phone.  “He’s going to take us to his wine cellar.  ‘S brilliant place man.   Brilliant.  It’s old and you go down to like a dungeon.  You’re all going to go mental.  Good bloke too, good bloke, went to University with him.  Good bloke.”


            POP!  And your glass was filled once again.  POP!  Bottle after bottle.  POP!  And we were starting to understand a peaceful feeling.  Us men swayed, smiling, standing in The Wine Cellar with Sam and his men he calls – the Averys.

“Told you man, it’s fucking brilliant,” Dale chorused.

            Sam took us down to the basement, then to the basement’s basement where the stone became much older looking.  And then even further down until we stood in what looked to be an ancient castle’s dudgeon.  The kind that if you ever saw it, it was the last thing you ever saw.

Massive barrels, the size of whales, holding wine distilling, were built into the old stone.


“This one here is very old,” Sam would say.  I shouldn’t open it but bah.”

“It’s truly expensive, expensive?” I ask with a slur.

“You don’t wanna know mate.”

“But yes mate” one of the Avery men interrupted with a hiccup.


“Here David, mate drink that down, have a go at this here.  This is my favorite.  Smoky, not reeeally fruity, or what have you, yah, more smoky.  Yah.  Smooth.  There, have a go, have a go.  Right?  Right?  Was I wrong?  Mm.  Lovely.  Here, here.  Whoops.  I’ll clean it later, no worries.  There, yah.  Cheers mate.  Cheers.”

POP! And your glass was filled once again.  POP!  Bottle after bottle.  POP! And we all had red lips and teeth.




“you’re so cool, you’re so cool”


I was reading the last few pages

of the screenplay True Romance

in a dark club in Kingston, England

when a young girl approached me

“are you really reading

or are you just trying to look cool?”


I said, “I’m reading a screenplay

I like reading screenplays”


“Well, you look like you’re just trying to look cool”

she double mentioned as she walked away


I wasn’t sure if I should feel bad for the girl

that the sight of someone reading sparks annoyance in her

or if I should feel happy that I look “cool” reading.


it’s a damn good screenplay


the wondering skye


she’s a model from Kingston, England

not the normal kind of model she says,

“the whole thing’s a bit silly really, ‘s rubbish”

it was the second to last day of a two and a half month tour

and the men and I

were packing up the trailer

for the last time that year in the United Kingdom

next was Canada and then the States and possibly Mexico

I turned to pick up some gear

when I saw her

and I said without apprehension

“lord, I love-a-love, love your hair”

it was red and done up in a way

I’ve only seen on the side of WWII fighter planes

she laughed and said “thank you”

“what’s you name Ms?”


“wow, skye, what’s next,

are you gonna to tell me you’re rich and single”

“well I’m not rich,” she said

then we both smiled

I remember her blinking slowly

or maybe things were just moving slow for me


I believe

there are some people you meet

in your life

that you can’t spend time with

for a number of reasons,

but distance is what I’m really speaking of

and for some reason

with these people

there is a short

strong bond

and it makes you


about them,

it keeps them

in your mind,

and you like them







            The last concert for our England and Europe excursion was in London at The Underworld, located in the center of Camden town, where rockers, artists, thieves and drug users reside.

Us men loaded in for the last time.  Set up our equipment and merchandise for the last time.  Sound checked for the last time.  And sat at the pub connected to the venue called The World’s End for the first time that morning.  Even though we are battered, we feel strong knowing that our bodies will soon have a chance to recoup.

At the corner edge of the bar we downed Snake Bite ‘n’ Blacks for memories’ sake, but moved on to popper cider, Guinness and Stella after two rounds.  We had invited all the friends we had made on the first leg of the England dates to The Worlds End for some drinks a couple days before.  They trickled in.  Each one looked hungry for a pint.  One of our men had a girl he had fancied on the first leg of the tour meet him as well.   With lovey-dovey eyes, they sat close, at the end of the bar.  Some of our new friends brought photos of us together from the month before and we all pointed and laughed.  It was nice to be in London with friends and it was nice knowing that the concert would be mental.

And the concert was mental.  Lovers of the Sound leaped off railings, speaker cabinets and even each other.  With force they would grab at my microphone to sing, slamming it into my face, chipping my teeth and opening my lips.  They would jump up on stage, knock me down, opening my palms and wrists as I slammed them down on the edge of electronics trying brace my fall.  Lovers of the Sound would dog pile on my back, even leap off it tumbling my body back.  If my hand got too close to the crowd they would pull me in, my back now on the dance floor looking up at legs and hands that would reach down and pull me back up.  Lovers of the Sound tear my shirt and pull my hair unknowingly.  Lovers of the Sound cheer and I cheer.  Lovers of the Sound scream and I scream.


Sweat.  Us men and the Lovers of the Sound were drench head to toe.  We all slipped and fell from the sweat on the stage and like all shows that are on the brink of a riot the ceiling rained our perspiration back down upon us.

Looking out on the crowd that looked like religious pictures of Hell, in the middle of the last show on this continent of the tour made me smile.  Somehow with all our bruised bodies, us men still had the fire in us.  The crowd looked like swimming demons.  And we were the minstrels of Hell.

Backstage I duct taped four open areas and rubbed my fingers and tongue against newly chipped teeth.  My body steamed in the bathroom stall as I changed.  I draped my wet cloths on the urinal and sat down with my dry ones on my lap.  I changed very slowly.  Exhausted.  When I stood to put on my dry pants my muscles would give and I’d loose my balance, falling hard against the walls of the stall.  The cage rattled.  Semi dry now, I washed my face in the sink and stretched.  I slapped my face to awaken my second wind.

Back at The Worlds End, above The Underworld, we found Ben.  He had come with his lady.  I spent most of my time against the bar listening and smiling at other people’s stories and ended my night laughing at a dark table in the back listening to more.  It was nice for us men to sit with Ben and Dale together and recap the tour.  It was nice to see Ben with a lady, who I could tell he was prone to make laugh and it was nice to see Dale flirting with a pretty girl, who I could tell liked him a lot.  Everyone got too drunk, trying to spend all their leftover pounds, so not to bring them back to the States.  Too good.   Too drunk.

Outside the pub, some of our good English friends got into a brawl among each other about money.   Bloody sidewalk.   I broke the tussle up with one of my men and we both simmered our red hot mates down.  It was an explosive night, a proper London night.


The next morning we had a lot to do in a small amount of time.  On account that we slept until noon.  And we didn’t leave the hotel until 1:00PM.  We also moved slowly once we hit the bright streets, enjoying a long proper English breakfast and a couple pints down the street with Dale before we saw him off.  It was our defiance against time restraints; it was our way of saying, ‘we did a good job, everyone take it slow.’

But when it hit 3:30PM we knew we were back to work.

London Traffic.  Ben muttered under his breath, “They’re all fucking wankers I tell yah.  Bloody wankers.”  We reached Ben’s storage house, to return the music gear we had rented.  London traffic.  Ben pantomiming the size of the other drivers small unmentionables outside the driver side window while advising, “Grow some yeah twat.”

We reached the manufacturer plant to return all the merchandise we didn’t sell.  London traffic.  Ben laid on the horn screaming “Fuckin’ hell, bloody London traffic; move yah dozy cunts, go on son, sort it out,” to finally reach the airport with our personal bags and the instruments we brought from Boston, now packed in brown boxes wrapped in duct tape.  I took a moment to check that nothing bladed was hidden deep in my belongings.

Once at the airport counter, we learned one man in our group’s passport had expired that day and we would have to leave him in England for two days until he was issued a new one.  The man would have to meet up with us in Boston the morning before starting our Canada / North American tour.  We left our man with Ben and hugged them both goodbye, but made sure to give our man a cheeky wave, while laughing and razzing him as he watched our tickets get scanned and watched us head to the plane.


England to The United States 


The plane ride was spent in the back of the plane, with brave stewardesses drinking cans of Carling, listening to their dreams without giving advice.   Unabashed flirting.


The United States of America

Home Again

I believe when people don’t have much, they welcome nice things.  Unlike The Fortunate, who often like to act in their play of life as people that don’t have much.   And no, when I say ‘nice things’, I’m not referring to a hot car or a flashy watch.  It’s more that one wants to come home to a kind house, hot shower, clean clothes, enough food, and not just the bottom shelf food at that.

4:30AM .  We were heading home once again, all sitting up, looking out onto a silent and still Boston.  We all share a feeling of happiness to be home, mixed with a sadness deep in our stomachs and throats to have the adventure be over.  To see our sky line and streets gave us a connection that we haven’t felt in a long time.  We felt home.  Our love for Boston is great.  Slowly, we dropped each man off.  Separating from the group is always tough after a long expedition; the silence is eerie and short goodbyes were clumsy.  One of the men and myself were the last ones to get home.  And truly, it’s not my home, it’s his, but there’s a bedbug infested couch that I’m to collapse on for two nights and I was only two miles away from it.

We parked the van in a driveway.  It was covered in snow mixed with trash.  Hopping out, Boston’s sharp, biting air threw us into survival panic.  Oh, how quickly our New England skin relaxes to the warmth of the vans heat and toughens when tossed outside again.

Of course, the last man of our tribe rightfully assumed I’d have the front door open by the time he latched up the trailer and locked down our exhausted van.  But, with the complete loss of feeling in my fingertips, I was nothing but a fear-driven teenager in a slasher movie, illiterate in the functions of using one’s house keys.  I had to reassure myself that if I kept enough pressure on my first knuckles, they would somehow relay a message to my fingertips to turn the key.  This was one of the rare moments my body was so angry with me that it was reminding us both who was the real operator of this complex appendage.

Like most men my age, the last man thought he could get the job done faster on drive alone.  Now stood two exhausted, bouncing, Boston boys, laughing, cursing, fumbling with their temper-testing house keys, as our half zipped up bags lay in the snow, collecting a nice new light coat from above.

Where could I find warmth?  I found it by sticking both hands in my mouth and desperately exhaling warm breath on what used to be my fingers, a small amount of blood could slip down my first knuckle and will the key slightly to the left for a successful unlatching of the front door.  Success.  We danced inside with the grace of a first year Inuit modern dance class student.

The trash was as generous as the skunk cabbage in my father’s swamp.  It lay ankle to chin deep.  If filthiness is ever commended, the gang I run with in Boston have given it a new talent.

Yes, there were trash bags filled, the product of a brief moment of motivation.  But now they lay open, almost guilty looking, as if it were they who were accused of vomiting up the filth.  My good friend Todd’s underwear and socks hung on the coffee table drenched in beer and leftovers. There was no way to tell exactly what the leftovers were. The only name that could suit it would be, chinese-freeto-pizza.

The last man let out a long, fully sodden breath and went up to his room to inspect the damage.  “Hopefully, there’s no one doin’ it in my bed,” he said, as he made his final tour exit.

Without taking my coat or my backpack off, I began to push the trash about.  I grabbed one of the trash bags and began to clean off the table.  The scattered change wouldn’t come off; it was coated with sugar-beer shellac.  This new, powerful shellac coated the entire makeshift coffee table, eating up the covers of different magazines, playing cards, and cigarette boxes, forever documenting they’re existence.

I remember getting word from the road that the couch given to us by a fan was now, indeed, full of bed bugs.  This couch was Todd’s favorite place to watch late night Twilight Zone reruns, but after getting bitten so many times by bugs, I hear he now uses the chair.  No matter, it was now 5:00AM and I wasn’t about to sleep on the sticky wooden floor.

So, I looked under and behind the small couch and found the ‘smiley face’ yellow sleeping bag no one has ever owned up to.  I then made a nice little area, free of trash, but not odor, and finally lay down.  Every muscle thanked me by fully relaxing and falling asleep before me.  My senses, however, scanned around in disgust.  They could see what my muscles could not.  No matter, I was in heaven.



I woke around 5:30AM to Todd discovering me.  Todd doesn’t sleep, he never has.  I thought that if I kept the blanket over my head and avoided eye contact, the four-hour drinking reunion was avoidable.

“Hey, buddy, when’d you get in?”

“Just now,” I said.

“Who is that?” from his bedroom.

“Baby, this is my best friend, wanna Pabst, or are you hittin’ it?”

“SSAK,” Todd opened a can, he was having a drink no matter what I was inclined.

I was wondering if the young girl’s voice was the girl I had met before tour.  Or could it be some new girl I hadn’t yet met.  No matter, I gave her no “hello.”

“No, man, I’m just gonna hit it,” I said under my warm drinking shield, “Tomorrow though, we’ll hit up Charlie’s.”

Todd was satisfied; he loves any talk of an outing to Charlie’s…Oh Charlie’s is a seedy bar in Harvard Square where young people research degenerates like us.  My last view was of Todd heading back to his room and of my bruised feet at the end of the couch.




I woke thirty minutes later to someone slamming the door with a small fist.  My roommate Johnny Trouble came down the stairs in his boxers, sleepy and annoyed.

“Oh shit!  Hey bro,” he said to me.  We hugged, then look at the door.  “Man I think that’s Todd’s ex.”



“Shit,” Johnny Trouble and I said in unison, stepped away from the door and took a seat on the couch.

Todd busted out of the room handing us all cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, opening them as he did it.   He sat the girl next to me and handed her a can as well, but not before taking a big long chug from it.

“Hi,” she said.  She was sleepy, small and confused.

“Hi,” I said close to her.  “Hey, I’m just saying, if this is the girl that I know, stick close by me, she’s really tough.  She gives a new talent to daaamn meeean.  She’s meaner than a fifty year old woman ordering in a nice restaurant.”

The door banged and banged and the screams got more frantic and insane.

Todd opened the door and the ex-girlfriend sprang in like she had been pushing the door.

“Where the fuck is she?”  First she checked Todd’s room, then dashed to the bathroom, then dashed up the stairs, to the upstairs bathroom.  She found nothing.  Coming down the stairs with power she approached Todd.  “Where the fuck is she, Todd?”  Then she slowly looked over at Johnny Trouble, Todd’s new girl and me.  She sussed it out.  “You.  Uh, Uh, nope, no way,” she said as she made her way over the coffee table.  “This is my house.”  She grabbed the confused girls wrist, dragged her over the table, dragged her across the room and out the door.  Johnny Trouble grabs and drinks her fallen beer.

Us men just sat there looking at one another.  We all kind of smiled in fear.  Slowly Johnny Trouble and I rose from the couch drinking and we all walked to the front door.  There we saw the ex-girlfriend tossing the new one half in the bushes, half against the van, fully in the now powdery snow, then storming back inside, slamming the door so hard the house shook and locking all the locks on the door.  She then went into Todd’s room and slammed his door shut as well.

“Did you just get in now?” Johnny Trouble asked as we both took our seats again.  Todd lit a cigarette, grabbed my beer for a long sip and made a defeated look as he went toward the front door.


Then Todd turned around and went into his room.

“Night” he said dreadfully.

Watching him I thought, ‘Well, Todd still lives dangerously.’

Johnny and I talked until our cans were done; we both were happy to see one another, but we’d catch up later.  What was on both of our front burners was being unconscious once again.  Johnny Trouble quietly opened the front door and hid the girl up in his room for the night.  She was shivering.


Morning.  I pulled myself up and scratched the five-day-old beard I had grown.  I spotted an old water someone had left but not finished, I killed it.  However, my throat, my brain, and my body needed more.  I reached for a full bottle of cranberry juice, what a score, and took a couple desperate gulps.  My taste buds to relay didn’t have enough time to decipher the encrypted message that there was more vodka in the bottle than cranberry juice, but they tried as fast as they could.  It was too late, I guess I was now partying.

My bare feet blackened as I made sticky steps to the kitchen.  It was as if someone poured glue on the floor and was having a laugh at me.

To make my other buddy from the house a bedroom, I had poorly nailed to the kitchen ceiling an enormous blue tarp, which now drapes down, making him a makeshift wall.  But, the six extra feet at the base of the tarp sat piled up on the floor.  We all talked about cutting it, but never did.  I tripped on it, of course, confused, forgetting the ways of the house and banged my knee on the open bathroom door.  But I didn’t forget really, that’s just an excuse.  I simply get confused in the morning; I trip on things every sleepy morning.

The kitchen looked like a cabbage patch of open trash bags over flowing.  If you have ever seen the movie Aliens, it was similar to the scene where Ripley found the room full of open alien eggs.  I noticed that every dish, bowl, glass, Tupperware product, pan, and skillet was used and then stacked.  The kitchen was one big ashtray, an orgy of rotting food and cigarettes.  I opened the fridge in the hope of finding a half drunk Gatorade.  Todd, for some reason, only drinks half of his beverages.  But when I opened the refrigerator door there wasn’t a small wave of coolness, it was a big wave of warmth and the most offensive odor I have come across to this day.   In the first three minutes of being awake I hadn’t noticed that all the trash bags were full of rotting leftovers, eggs and milk.  The fridge had been emptied for a reason I still don’t know.  I found the Gatorade I was looking for on the floor next to the old broom.


Ironic, huh?


I had to get moving, because I had a big day of going to get a haircut.  I hadn’t talked to my father or mother for about two weeks and thought I remembered them saying they wanted to have dinner when I got home, or was it for me to watch the house for them – I had forgotten.  Either way I knew they asked for me to come home and one must look nice for Mum.  But the hair cut would have to be paid for not with money, because I only had enough dosh for a bus ride, a subway ride, and a train ticket home.


“How was he to pay for a haircut?” an observant person might ask.


Well, the way the underground-lower class of Bostonians works is ‘trade within jobs’.   If I worked in a club, I’d let you and your friends in for free.  In return if I needed a pair of new sneakers you’d give me your employee discount.  Got it?  Well, Will’s girlfriend Gillian knows how to cut hair, so I grabbed two new records of the group I run with and a small T-shirt to trade for a cut.  But I figured I should shower, so I don’t lose the deal on account of my offensive body odor.

The last time I had a shower was more days ago than I’m keen on admitting, so it was time to wash up.  After tour, a long tour, the first shower home reminds me of the old western movies when the band of cowboys stop in at a town’s brothel and draw a hot bath to wash away any memory of their excursions.

I sludge up the stairs finishing up Todd’s Gatorade, but when I enter the bathroom I see that it doesn’t have a trash barrel anymore.  The back of the toilet is now used for discarding used products.  So, I let my empty bottle slide down the mountain of toilet paper rolls, used tissues, boxes of new toothpaste, pizza crusts, old beers and, I guess, someone in the house has a girlfriend now.  I place my empty ‘Mountain Extreme’ Gatorade bottle on the top of the pile, it rolls down and out the doorway.

The floor was coated with wet magazines and brown moldy towels.  That brown scum in the toilet, similar to the scum found in abandoned truck-stop bathrooms, had managed to coat the floor, walls and sink.  A movie director would have said that his set designers went too far trying to emulate a junkie’s bathroom.

But, my shower, was divine, I stayed in there for at least forty-five minutes.

In the shower, there were wet boxes of old products on the floor and on the shelf.  The ink that labeled each box ran and stained the shower walls and floor, similar to a crying drunk girl’s running mascara.   I combed through the wet boxes looking for a bit of soap.  Under the sopping Zest soap box, (yah I didn’t know they still sold Zest either), was a piece of soap no bigger than half a dog biscuit.  That piece of soap cleaned my entire body.

After the good wash, I threw on the same clothes and slicked my hair back in a manageable 1950’s pompadour.  The way Pop does.  As I walked downstairs, I eyed the crate of food that the last man was damn smart to bring in.  The crate, well I should say the smashed plastic basket, was given to us in Texas by a fan four months ago, regrettably I never met her – so I don’t know her name.  It was full of chips, cookies, and other snackable treats.  But, I remember seeing some cans of Chef Boyardee raviolis in there one hungry night.

It was only seconds before I was back in the kitchen combing for a can opener.  It was where I expected it to be, at the bottom of an old Tupperware bowl, covered and camouflaged by floating macaroni, used matches and cigarette butts.

When a can is frozen, the interior food doesn’t just slide out like we’re all used to, and the use of a plastic fork can only pathetically chip at the frozen future Petco breakfast.  All and all, I managed, and dined on, warm in some places frozen in others, ravioli.

I headed out, the first time a lone in a long time.  I took the 66 bus to Coolidge Corner and met up with Gillian.   I asked her to cut my long hair like Calvin from Calvin and Hobbs.  She did just that.  It was about then that I realized I had bedbugs bites on my ankles, neck, fingers, and hipbone.  They itch like a bitch, I mean, not as bad as poison ivy, but a bitch just the same.  I hid them from Gillian.

After the cut, I took the subway to the commuter rail to catch the 2:00PM train home and I was scratching all the way.

Sitting on the train heading home with my bag beside me and my eyes closed, I received a message from one of the men.

“Mexico is on, are you in?  So now it will be Canada, The States, then Mexico – a bit more than two months.  And we’re gonna leave a bit earlier than we originally thought.  Can you be ready in 2 days ?”

“Of course I can,” I wrote back.



Thank you to all who have joined me on this adventure. I hope you had fun spending time together. Currently I am working on my new novel, which its topic is a secret – ‘shhh‘. I am also work on ‘The Modern American Circus‘ – the continuation of ‘The Modern American Gypsy‘. Come Hallow’s Eve I will take a flight with my men to Asia. We will lay our feet down on Japan, China, South East Asia and Australia. During these days I will be taking notes and will craft this excursion for the third part of my wayward Gypsy series.

From today on, I will continue to post on this sight poems from my other books. I hope you will continue to peek, read and enjoy.

Thank you once again for taking the time and supporting wild writing.

– David McWane

MODERN AMERICAN GYPSY: BY DAVID MCWANE PAGES 106-115 – Denmark to Germany through Belgium heading to France

Each day a new section of David McWane’s Modern American Gypsy will be posted. Todays stories start in Denmark then Germany through Belgium heading to France


David McWane




The first thing I noticed leaning against the Sprinter in the center of Copenhagen was all the beautiful woman.  Just beautiful.  Lovely.  Hair flowing behind them as they road their Wicked Witch of the West bicycles, with perfect posture.   I, the paralyzed American, hadn’t a clue what to do about them.  How do you choice a woman to speak to, when each one of them would tragically twist your tongue?  All us men stood and stared; smiled and exhaled.

“Oh right non of you lot have been to Copenhagen yah?  The woman are fucking brilliant here.  Top.  Read that ah, Denmark is the happiest country of them all,” said Dale as he came around the Springer.

“I heard that too,” I said.

“Great beer, great beer.  And smoke,” Dale continued.

“Heard that too,” I said again.

“Yah s’proper.  Yah they do it right here.  They know what it’s made of.  Oh and they got this market right, that has just troughs and troughs of smoke.  You’ve never seen anything like it.  The squatters took a whole block, made this mental market mate.  We’ll go for sure.”

And we did.

We sat with local bottled beer, on a stone wall, past the Green Goblin mural and soaked it all in.  We watched the market play out, saw the troughs of smoke and continued to breathed in deep the woman that were too pretty for us to talk to.

That night we were put up in a small empty apartment, over looking downtown.   It was a quite weeknight.  The wet streets sizzled from beautiful black bicycles.  We played cards, drank beer and coffee, ate cheese with meats and took turns toasting bread.  Denmark eased us.  I thought of Arend; he was right.



Germany through Belgium heading to France



“McWane, David!  McWane, David!”, shouted the border patrol officer.

I was nudged awake by three sleeping men.  We were at a border crossing, Germany to Belgium.

“Dave, mate wake up, this officer has a question about your passport,” Dale said.

I ain’t pretty in the morning, I ain’t nice neither, I ain’t nothing but annoyed, and mean, angry even.  If you are on fire, I’ll help yah, but if you ain’t, help yourself.

“McWane, David.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why is your passport like this?”  The border patrol man began splitting the cover of my passport in two, ripping the cover off.

“God, c’mon, ‘s because your ripping it in half, Jesus Christ.” Then I went back to sleep and know nothing else.




except one pretty girl


“thank god we’ve made it,”

dale said, “I was losing my mind there,

going daff.”

us nine liminal men were

finished with

a ten hour drive

through east Germany

through the hopeless night

finally to end the drive

at the only open hotel in Belgium

our bodies were stiff

but our souls we’re hungry

joy from not being in the sprinter

made us parade about

we had a fresh air about us and

while unpacking the luggage

we caught word

that the Belgian hotel

had an open courtyard

and a full bar

and it was still open

we unpacked with urgency,

like that of a midnight swimmer,

submerged in a cold New England lake,

with a direct line of vision

on simply

getting the hell out

it smelled of mud and freshly lit cigarettes

it smelled of friends and the hope of laughter

the night’s lodging looked to be

an old elementary school,

now converted to a quirky hotel

us men,

all sporting big duffle bags slung around our shoulders

and healthy 22oz German beers in our hands

exhausted, yet exuberant 

opened the front doors

and were finally home

once again

somewhere we knew not


little ragamuffins and hooligans roamed

these school’s halls many years before

and now

grown ones do


we tossed our bags in our bunkhouse

plopped on our choice mattresses

the six bunks were bunked three high,

right up to the ceiling

half of us headed to the shower room

while the rest of us unpacked,

drank and laughed together

about nonsense

and about women

once the washed men were sorted

they met the waiting men in the hallway

and together we headed to the courtyard


a gift for us all

we found a party that was already in full crescendo

everyone dressed to the nines

men in suits that actually fit

and women in dresses that made them feel ten years younger

if it wasn’t a wedding reception

it was some sort of family reunion

I could tell that, because the

grandmothers and grandfathers




twirling and kissing


everyone cheered our entrance

as we walked through the orange bowed doorway

as if we were the matadors of the night

one of us was led by an older man at the party

to dance with a smiling slender woman in her early forties

she looked like a snake

as much as

she looked like a cat

she was long and sexy

with eyebrows that lifted sharp in the back


with bang-snap hips

and pillow case lips


we were all alive here


the music that played kept the earth on fire

it was a cross between gypsy music and, well,

mixed with nothing

it was just gypsy music









eyes wide with honest drunk smiles

tongues licking canines

lips puckered to kiss anyone that’d accept

women who looked over shoulders,

with hands on hips

– their best angle for the men to see

for us men

it was this excursion’s

first oasis


the party was in their thirties and up

except one pretty girl

who sat in a beautiful blue flowered dress

at a small table,

under a large yellow umbrella

beside an adolescent tree

looking bored, but not tired

she held a glass of ice

and twirled it around


a thin red straw 


us men were old enough not to mind

the ages of the other party

but she was around eighteen years old

so she couldn’t yet relate


alone, she sat

across the courtyard

across the firecracker dance floor

looking at us

wanting an escape

wanting fun

wanting a conversation with the matadors

the foreigners

the Americans

the young men

that weren’t

from around town


but she wasn’t allowed to leave her table

or by any chance walk to our side of the courtyard

you could tell that,

after her father walked over to her

pointed at us and brought her

a new soda


us slightly doolally men with

large beers

loud laughter

now dizzy dancing

with gypsy mothers and grandmothers cackling

danced as the music continued to burn the earth

and the earth burned our feet

and our souls cooled from the release


I noticed, as my drunk and me

twirled the women

and belly laughed with the men

that the young girl

would smile at times and laugh at times

changing her seated position

by crossing one leg over the other

and over again

she sat longingly



in a blue flowered dress,

under a yellow umbrella

at a small table

beside an adolescent tree

twirling ice

with a thin red straw

waiting for it to be all done

or just waiting

to grow up





The Sprinter seemed to be driving fine, but when we reached the center of Paris and stopped at the a red light – it died.  All seven of us men had to push the massive vehicle eight blocks to a friend Yul’s house.  The French loved the scene.  Not in a sarcastic way either; the fumbling of seven men with a mission brought them true smiles.  They put thumbs in the air, cheered and would even jump in adding to the muscle when there was an incline.  The English man smoking and steering, the Americans razzing and pushing and the French cheering and helping.  It must have made one of the gods happy, for outside Yul’s house was an open parking spot.

Yul and his love Benedicte greeted us with wine, olives, bread, cheese and meats. We dined on the balcony.  We drank until sunset.  The sun left us with different shades of orange.  And yellows.  Then the blues and purples climbed up to the Paris night.  The van would be hard to sort out, but we called a garage that would take a look at it in the morning.  Luckily we had a day off the next morning, so tonight’s work shift was over. Desperate men got to wash some spoiled cloths.  Yul and his love brought us to La Butte Aveyronnaise, a small restaurant with a friendly staff.  We drank, we ate; we love Yul; we love his love.  The wine kept coming and there was more food then us all could eat.  The waitress thought us beggarly to ask to box the untouched meats and smashed/mashed potatoes called: Aligot.  And she was right.  Us men must be savvy; prideful we are, but royalty we are not.  The box will feed us all in the morning and keep us strong until night.

Bill paid, we walk to Yul’s soaked in wine.  We would stop and touch pieces of Paris’s beautiful street art, made from the one they call – Invader.

Back at Yul’s the men drank on.  Benedicte retired, speaking soft close French advice to her wine soak love.  “Bonne nuit” she at last said.

We razzed, getting too loud, but then brought it down, then getting too loud, then brought it back down again.  We agreed: Paris is the only place to break down.  And toasted that Yul is a mighty host.




At a roadside café finishing up hot coffee, talking about how much damage the mechanics fee and parts would be on our excursion, we headed out again, unknowingly followed by two French officers.  This roadside café was a trap.  Officers will sit in a road side petrol shop at the standing café waiting for foreigners, then, once the foreigners leave, the trappers spring their trap.  They got something to prove.

The French coppers had us line up while they went through our bags, the Sprinter and the back where all the gear was.  An hour and a half delay.  They even had us hold our hands up as they went into our pockets.  Not a smart or manly thing to do.  Logically, a hidden pocket prick, from a drug needle, sends an officer straight to an AIDS test.

They fished around and pulled the contents out.  Even though we could tell that this must be in their handbook, a good humiliating act to do to a suspect, we didn’t care, we thought it a laugh on them.  You see, we are from New England, Boston boys and this act only proved to us that they would get closer to a man then we would.  To be frank – it’s simply something a man who likes women wouldn’t want to do.  I’d say, “empty your pockets.”

When it was my turn and the officer brushed something private in my pocket, I looked down at him, raised my eyebrows and smiled.  And the lot of us men let out held back laughter.  The power balance swayed.  The officers no longer spoke forcefully.  The officers apologized and, as men, they knew we thought them to be silly.



The Road To Église Sainte-Ségolène


The gypsy reunion the night before,

a party at a Belgian Hotel

full of dancing and shouting

women and music

had made me feeling like,

I was a

fat man

who had eaten too much,

but damn happy about it.

I stepped outside

a nightclub in Metz, France

with a warm, low, thumping


It was rounding 1:00PM

in the afternoon.

I walked the stone streets,

still wet from the morning shower

in the bathroom sink.

I would stay wet through the day,

for the sun would not be

burning though these misty clouds.


It was a quiet French town.

Door hinges let out eerie squeaks,

with the help of the weak wind.

The last few days were a low time for the souls of us men,

but the last night was full of

red wine, good beer

and groups of people

who didn’t know one another,

but loved one another.


Continuing with the wet stones under my feet

I came to the small center for a sit.

The stone bench

was facing a water fountain.

I used the mist from the spray to

rub my face clean,

cleaned my ears,

and dunked my head in the fountain

to wake up.


While submerged,

I could hear

the faint, wavering notes

of a trumpet player warming up.

I whipped my wet

hair back and took a seat

back on the

stone bench.

Mixed with the sound

of the water fountain

and a small French flag flapping

in the cold wind,

with one bird chirping,

the municipality slowly came

alive around me.


An ancient church door in front of me opens,

but no one exits.

A young boy riding a bicycle

with a younger boy on his handlebars

coasts by.

The restaurant Jehanne d’Arc

is closed.

All the

patio chairs

are strung together neatly and locked.

A quiet, older man approaches

and sits on a bench near me,

he looks at the fountain,

squinting from the spray,

exhales a long breath

and closes his eyes.

I look at him twice,

as I dry my hair with my hands.

On the second glance,

a pretty older woman,

with long black hair

and a long black coat

walks by,

leaving her perfume scent.

The sent was sweet. 


I notice I’m swaying a bit

from my hangover.

My headache

makes its entrance again.

I wipe my wet face

and look around a bit more.


Through the spray of the fountain,

I see

two young girls

walk by,

shoes clacking

and chit chatting.

One has started up smoking; she’s clumsy with it.

A young couple takes the corner

with a bushy puppy

and they look at me.

They talk about me in French,

but seem to be alright with me.


Finally, exiting the open door

of the church Eglise Ste Segolene – Prarrkircke,

a priest and a friend come out

and lock up.

They shake hands

and leave

in different directions.

The young couple’s

bushy puppy

barks at the priests

and the older man beside me moves on.

The church gives out three bell tolls

– twice.


Then it begins to rain.

And the rain picks up

and my page gets very wet

and my head aches and aches even stronger,

and I head down Les Trinitaires,

back to the venue

to see the men again.


The Englishmen were

late to this gig

and are just now

beginning their set,

to no one.


I look up and see the Frenchmen

in the second story window.

They are opening many bottles of red wine.

This is their hometown.

The Frenchmen

are all smiles up there;

their women are beautiful.

And I wonder how my spindly ass got

to such a beautiful place

and I wonder if I should join the Frenchmen in wine

and I wonder why I had left the group of men for so long in the first place

and I wonder why I’d call this boring, quiet, place




Thanks for reading! I will post 10 pages tomorrow. You can find Modern American Gypsy here: http://www.davidmcwane.com/store/

And check out the bonus poems below.

Take care,

David McWane


Bonus Poem 1 of 2


le logique du couple

we should never try and understand

why one man loves a woman

and a woman her man

we must shy away from the hearsay of love

are we but fools



imposing our opinions on another’s love

how arrogant

how self-righteous

of us

it is only

le logique du couple

and that

is all



to know


Bonus Poem 2 of 2


les larmes du jeune coiffeur


I live in a basement apartment

so my bedroom is in an alley way

alley number 34,

in the Back Bay of Boston,

when I sleep,

my head is a brick wall away

from a popular

smoke break area



it’s either the

Brazilian men

from the restaurant

catching up with

one another

letting out big laughter,




just talking about the women

from the weekend


or it’s the South Shore girls

from the salon

gum chewing,



and talking about how stupid their boyfriends are


starting at 5:00AM

it’s the men,

but after 8:00AM

it’s strictly the girls


with incredible linguist speed

these girls

make plans with boyfriends

on their phones

talking about

when they need to be picked up,

what they want to do after work

yet most often

they are in endless arguments

with the inaudible men


my alarm clock

each morning

is men laughing

to later

the tears of hairdressers


“you don’t listen”


“well, if it’s over just tell me”




“why the fuck are you being such a shit?”


if I’m sleeping late

and if a girl is knee deep in a good scream,

I’ll have to listen for as long as her break – thirty minutes

but it’s not uncommon

for one girl to finish and

another girl to come out and begin


the women of the hair style salon




snap chewing gum

and ask ‘why?’ a lot


I lay in bed hearing their thick South Shore accents

hear their points and counter points

hear the pauses for long drags of marlboro light cigarettes

and try and figure out if I think she is right or not


it seems

most of the time

they are the right ones

maybe their men are stupid


but one morning, my waking argument was different

the man was actually there

he had shown up in alley 34

and parked his car three feet from my pillow

the stylist must have been new

or at least had not spent much time

crying in the alley

because I didn’t recognize her voice

she was French

right off the boat French

and he was too


their thoughts danced out in their voluptuous language

thick words, spoken from the front of their puckered lips

bounced into my ears waking me


they went at it


screaming with stone skipping speed

in and out of English I picked up her saying,


“well, if you want to break up with me, then do it now”


then, after minutes of French he’d say in English,


“you are so negative, you do not listen”


and she didn’t listen


I don’t know exactly what their logique du couple was

but they both seemed wrong and

they both



I wanted to get out of bed this particular morning and

get to what it is I had to get to

but I had left the blinds up the night before,

so, if I didn’t stay put, they’d see me

and my spindly white body

a brick wall length from them


oh, they fought for too, too long


she wouldn’t listen

so I got out of bed

half naked

and they stopped dead in mid-sentence

and the air of


surrounded them

I could hear their thoughts

‘did he

just listen

to everything?’

yes, I did, I mentally sent back to them

I yawned in the hall,

stretched in the bathroom

and scratched my entire body

in the kitchen

– visible from the window

I then walked back to my bedroom to

put the blinds down

they were holding hands looking at me

once the blinds snapped shut

I went back

to the loo

for a piss

and thought

‘you don’t listen jeune coiffeur’


Both bonus poems are from the book Let The Poets Come And Stop Me, found here: http://www.davidmcwane.com/store/