[ . . . ]
The backs of women’s
Knees still intrigue
Me, especially in
Winter when they seem
To wink at you from
Between the tops of
Boots and hems of
Skirts or dresses, I
Want to bless them
With gratitude and kisses—
[ . . . ]
The dusty slants of early
Morning light coming
Through the East window
Of what I still think of
As “the newly renovated”
Grand Central Station
Even though it’s been
Years, as I cut through
From the Southwest corner
At 42nd to the Northeast
At Lexington and 43rd—
[ . . . ]
In Penn Station, the
Older deaf businessman
Speaking too loudly on
His earpiece cell phone—
Sounding like my deaf
Cousins I grew up with
[ . . . ]
The white woman with
Dark hair climbing the
Stairs in her heels, one
Shoulder of her coat falling
Off, wobbling from
The effort of keeping
Her balance as she
Climbs, hands full
Of purse and shopping
Bags, me watching
From below as I pass—
The amber skinned
Latina woman, thirty-
Something, auburn hair—
She reminds me of Easter candy
Not chocolate, not anything
Specific, just the sweet
Satisfaction of the feast—
The warmth of the day’s
Pagan spring rite roots!—
[ . . . ]
The stunningly beautiful
Young woman, Latina
Her eyes surprise me
With their depth, their
Absolute acknowledgment
Of mine, oh hearts sublime
The two guys with their
Baseball caps turned backward
Walk by me in the rain,
With no umbrella, wiping
Rain drops from their faces as
If unaware that’s what
The bills of their caps are
For and protection from the
Sun, baggy pants too—
[ . . . ]
The Asian woman in the
Subway car—as old as me,
Maybe—eyes me warily,
As if my gray haired phys-
Iognomy portends some
Memories of other times,
As if I may be one of those
Veterans of Viet Nam still
Searching for the solace
Once found in brown skin
They used to call yellow—
[ . . . ]
The many mixed couples
On streets and subway trains
These days—young ones,
Old ones, Arab looking with
Irish looking, African
Descent with Scandinavian—
Puerto Rican and Asian—
The mix of life’s re-
Surgence, completion—
[ . . . ]
You can’t cut through
Penn Station anymore
Like you still can Grand
Central—some doors and
Entrances are barricaded
And a new announcement
Over the New Jersey Transit
Loudspeakers warns
Passengers to look
Out for suspicious
Packages or people—
[ . . . ]
The bookstore on Tenth
Avenue I never noticed
Before—the quirky
Choice of poetry titles—
Of biographies and art
Books—the comforting
Smallness of the space—
[ . . . ]
The “soap” actress
In the restaurant who
Isn’t even pretty in
Person—the old couple
In their seventies,
At least, more likely
Eighties, on the
Subway, the woman
Stunningly and
Naturally beautiful—
[ . . . ]
The black woman in
Her thirties, maybe
Forties, round dark
Face with bright red
Lipstick and brighter
Smile for me, maybe
Everyone, maybe not—
Then the tall young
Asian woman, no
Smile but sustained
Eye contact as we
Pass—the young WASPy
Woman, also, catching
My eye, not me hers—
Lingering, is that some
Kind of longing I see?
Sixty-two next month,
And a day like today,
Inexplicable to me as
Females of all types and
Ages seem genuinely
Interested in drawing
My attention and sus-
Taining it—smiles—
Nods—romances of
The eyes—the brief city
Street affairs poet James
Schuyler said are
Enough—and they are—
[ . . . ]
It’s supposed to be Spring
But cutting across Bryant
Park on the Monday
Of Easter week there’s
Only two people there,
One on a bench on the
South side, one on a chair
On the North—I sit for
A moment on another bench
With some sunlight on
It but the bitter, icy
Wind makes me get up
And go to the recently
Moved Coliseum Book
Store, now on Forty-
Second, to warm myself
Cutting across Bryant
Park on the following
Wednesday there’s
No benches free as the
Fifty-eight degree sunny
Weather finally brings
The city-Spring I love,
People hanging outside,
Some with their coats
Off, the first blossoms
Of bare flesh—
The gray haired black
Lady, tall, in jeans and
Sweater, looking cool
And earthy and fine—
What is it about some
Asian women, especially
Older ones, that reminds
Me of my Irish aunts?
Something in the eyes
And round cheeks—
[ . . . ]
The cleaning woman
In Penn Station—in
Her dark blue workers
Outfit—as lovely a face
As any movie star’s
I’ve seen this close—
The once, homeless
Man, who owns a
Building in Harlem,
Skin so black it’s
Hard to see much
Definition in his
Face outside his eyes,
His wife a wealthy
White French woman,
Their little boy and girl
Both stunningly new and
Promisingly beautiful—
The “Jersey girls” so
Unpretentious and even
Humble in the thrill
They’re obviously ex-
Periencing on their
Trip to Manhattan
To celebrate the
Fortieth birthday
Of one of them—
The Mongolian look of
The young woman
On the subway train—
like she might get
Off and mount a
Horse and ride off
Across the endless
Plains Genghis Kahn
Once roamed and
Called his own
[ . . . ]
Oh the variety, es-
Pecially on a day like
Today that started
Out cold and cloudy
And is now sunny
And bright, half
The people I pass in
Winter coats the
Other half in shirt
Sleeves and tees or
Low riding jeans
That show their bellies—
The beauty I remark
On is never conventional,
Nothing that can be
Bought, but character
And gene driven, de-
Riven, given—history
Alive in the eyes
And thighs and even
Oversize pants the
Two young men are wearing
Looking like little boys
With a load in their
Drawers and obviously
Unaware of that as
They swear in joy
And lechery at a
Passing beauty who
Totally ignores their
Crude adolescent show—
[ . . . ]
On Sixth Avenue
The black man
With beautiful eyes,
Perfectly groomed [ . . . ]
The thing about the
Handsome sharply
Dressed black man
Is the confidence
And power he exudes
Although he can’t
Be even five feet
Tall, as small as
A little boy, but
Perfectly proportioned
And totally handsome
And obviously comfortable
In his skin—
Only minutes later on
Forty-second street an
Equally small but
Homely white man
In sports regalia
Claps his hands
As he spies
The store he must
Have been looking
For and veers across
The sidewalk to
Enter one of those
Shops that specializes
In team clothes—
With local team
Logos, Rangers, Jets,
Yankees, Mets, Knicks,
And Nets and Metro Stars—
Later downtown on
The Lower East Side
The tall young black guy
Who waits on me
[ . . . ] keeps asking
About me, flashing his
Warm smile, plying me
With not just samples
Of men’s products but
Full sized bottles, “gifts”
He says continuing to
Hold my eye and smile
Until I can see and
Register how handsome
He is in his way
And how he wants me
To acknowledge that
Connection and I do—
The pulse of life is
So strong on these
Streets, I remember
How just living here
When I was in my
Thirties made me feel
I’d not only survived
But somehow won—
As summer approaches—
The older black man
In the tan suede
Matching short sleeve
Shirt and slacks—
Not a wrinkle in either—
The pleasant odors
Of perfumes and
Colognes as people
Pass—like the African
Man in pressed slacks
And dress shoes and
Lacey, patterned,
White shirt
That falls to his knees
And through which
You can see his
White sleeveless undershirt—
Or the perfume on the
Asian woman in her
Forties in jeans and
Tight shirt—
The ages I guess at, could
Really be anything,
My eye for age always
Mediocre at best,
Seeing everyone’s age as
Alive—I notice the eyes
And the mouths first,
Like that man in
The elevator with
A barely hidden
Smirk and condescending
Sparkle in his eyes[ . . . ]
Meet a TV writer friend at
PJ Clarke’s on 3rd Avenue
And 55th Street—later we bump
Into a movie star I wrote
Some words for once and
When I’m introduced
He mentions
The movie and an old
Girlfriend of mine who
Married a friend of his[ . . . ]
Six degrees, or three,
Or two, among the
People we know—
Later, alone, walking down
Second Avenue from
55th to St. Mark’s
Church on 10th, I
Pass so many varieties
Of human beauty
I want to shout in
Gratitude for their
Creator’s ingenuity—
At one point, passing
All those high rises in
The twenties, teenagers
From the neighborhood
Imitate the gangster
Styles of the times,
Their black and Hispanic
Faces seeming older
Than their suburban
Counterparts—
As I pass, one says to
An older woman, maybe
Her mother—“She lives in
Santa Monica, on Princeton,
It’s just North of . . . ”—
[ . . . ]
At St. Mark’s for
Poet and lyricist
Kenward Elmslie’s
Seventy-fifth birthday
Celebration—a man
Who was so generous
To me [ . . . ] I took it for a
Sign of my success
Rather than his
Largesse, for which
I thank him,
I hope humbly, now—
I see old friends,
Old men
Like I’ve become or
Am becoming,
Others, my age who
Still retain a boyish
Spirit in aging bodies
And faces, all so
Fulfilling to my
Heart, just to know
They’re still around
And seem happy to be—
On the way out I run
Into the painter Alex
Katz and his wife and
Favorite model Ada—who
I always admired—
Their son, poet and
Translator Vincent,
In the process of pub-
Lishing a long poem
I wrote on the eve
Of our latest war—
Alex is doing the cover
For it and when I
Thank him he declares
“It’s an honor! That poem’s
better than Howl!”!
I look around to see
If there’s anyone else
On the street
But us, there isn’t,
My heart the only witness—
[ . . . ]
In Lenox Hill[ . . . ]
To see another doctor,
Remembering stories of
York Avenue’s old days
When little
German and Irish
Immigrant kids filled
The streets, like Jimmy
Cagney—now it’s mostly
Generic looking, though Asian
And Caribbean cooking
Fills the gaps
In bland architecture—
Walking uptown from 40th
I passed four black
Men by a table
Display of black
Themed books, paper
And hardback,
Novels mostly, at
43rd and 6th, arguing
Passionately about
Politics, one saying
“Giuliani called my man
A nigger, and my man
Kicked Giuliani’s ass!”
I wonder who his man is—
On 47th I stop at the Gotham
Book Mart, still there, the
Old sign “WISE MEN
FISH HERE” outside,
Almost lost among
The diamond stores—
And throngs of diamond
Merchants, messengers,
Traders, and customers—
The varieties of Jewish
Garb, from yarmulkes
On men in jeans and
Sneakers to old men
In black suits with
Black fedoras of mid
20th-century design, to
Men in long black over
Coats on what’s becoming
A very warm day, with
Long curly locks for side-
Burns and hats of 19th
Century style, tassels
Hanging from beneath
Their shirts, I have to
Step into the street
To make any progress—
Back in Bryant Park—
The junkie’s slouch,
The look of bad boy
Street sharpie gone to seed—
[ . . . ]
The apartment building
On the Northwest corner
Of 35th and 3rd with
The big USA flag
And three pink
Flamingos on the
Northern most
First floor balcony—
The black woman,
On 7th Avenue in
The “fashion district”
Overweight, low cut jeans,
Too tight, her love
Handles flopping
Out beneath her
Neon orange tee
Shirt calling
Attention to them—
The Asian woman
In what look like
Platform combat
Boots, making her
Several inches taller—
Stepping awkwardly—
Both of them
Beautiful to me
Especially considering
Death’s domain—
The Chinese-American
Doctor says “I’ll
Knock you out if
You argue with me Mike”
If he discovers excessive
Blockage
And wants to operate—
Or do some procedure—
The white haired
Man emerging from
The office building
In suit and tie his
Face neon bright
Pink as though
About to explode[ . . . ]
The beautiful black
Girl’s face—her
Full lips and smooth
Dark skin and
Perfect dark eyes
That make me
Wish I was on the
Receiving end of the cell
Phone call she’s in the
Midst of as she passes
Saying—“I paid it—it
Was twenty dollars”—not
Even noticing me,
This older gray haired
White—well, pink—man—
The young blonde
Crossing Sixth Avenue
At Thirty-First Street
Heading West as I head
East, bringing to mind
Old descriptive clichés
From the ’50s when
I first began writing
Seriously, or with the
Intent of publishing—
Like “peroxide blonde”
With a “cigarette dangling
From her lips” and
“Porcelain skin” looking
“Sullen” and “like trouble”
—Troubled more like it—
Young and more vulnerable
Than she even knows I
Would guess from her dis-
Tracted, inward directed
“Filmy” gaze—
[ . . . ]
The waitress where
I eat at Chelsea
Market so solicitous
—The Green Table—
Organic fresh daily
Exotic salads and
“Protein” combinations
I imbibe while trying
To write about the
Wonder of mixes
That make up this
World now—the
Older “white” woman
Pushing the “black”
Baby—her nanny?
Grandmother? Mother?
“The infinite possibilities”—
[ . . . ]
Saying the Saint
Francis prayer—over
And over—as they
Wiggle and maneuver
The catheter through
The artery—my heart
Aches—literally—and
Not so unlike the
Ways it always has—
Lying on the slab
In this freezing room—
Heart stuck—listening
To them discuss my
Reaction to the new
Blood thinner—“Have
You ever seen this
Before?”—“Me
Neither”—“Let’s
Stop and resume tomorrow”
[ . . . ]
I’m on my back and
Immobile for six
More hours—or four—
Depending on the
Nurse—their origins
So varied—Manhattan
Sidewalk symphony
Of accents in this
Hospital room with
A view of the East
River and the Fifty-
Ninth Street Bridge
That my “room
Mate” cannot share—
A seventy-two-year
Old Puerto Rican lady
On the other side of
The curtain dividing
Our not so private
Spaces here—she’s
In for open heart
Surgery—my doctor
Reminds me I’m so
Lucky to not need—
For now—
More pain when they
Go back in, no
Drugs, “it’s a ten”
I tell them—on the
Pain scale—they
Say now I’ll know
What a heart attack
Feels like—later
When they take
The catheter out
I tell the two
Nurses working on me
That I’m feeling nauseous
And sweating—“I think I’m
Going into shock”—they
Look up from my groin
And suddenly seem panicked—
Start feeding syringes
Into the two i.v.s they
Have in both my arms—
“If you never assume importance
You never lose it.”
From Witter Bynner’s
1944 translation of
LaoTzu’s Tao Te Ching
Which he translates as
“The Way of Life” a
Pacifist interpretation
I’ve had with me
Since I was a teenager
And think of often—
Especially now as my
Life insists on teaching
Me a wisdom I have
Always resisted—even
As I sought it—
Three days, three pro-
Cedures, where there was
Supposed to be one—
The stories of others—
In and out of the hospital
In a day, instead of the
Four and more I spend
There—others knocked
Out, not even aware of
What was going on, me
Awake, alert, so the doctor
Can consult me about the
Stent, show me as it goes
In on the big screen over
The gurney I lie on—
[ . . . ]
Summer rain—
For days—lady
Walking under an
Umbrella the size
Of the one that
Protected our whole
Family at the beach
When I was a kid—
Duck into a restaurant
On Madison with
“Heaven” in the
Name though the
Food is anything
But celestial—
And I can’t see
The mini-TV that
Hovers over the
Table like its
Clones dispersed
Throughout the
Place—the waitresses
All in neat WASPy
Uniforms of khaki pants
And striped button
Down shirts are all
Latin American—
The couple at the
Next table, an over-
Weight youngish
White man in a suit
And middle aged Asian
Woman in business
Lady clothes, discuss
Corporate strategy
At SONY and their
Positions as lawyers—
[ . . . ]
Writing this at an
Outdoor table in
Bryant Park next
To the carousel
Which is busy today—
The first dry day in
Almost a week—
Earlier lunch at
Victoria’s on W.
38th in the fashion
District—a cafeteria
Style long narrow
Lunch only joint
The artist Don Mc
Laughlin took me to—
A couple of black
Women at the next
Table respond to my
Tray with woops of
Interest as they pause
In their intake of
Carbs to admire
My salad and grilled
Chicken plate—I
Should eat like them
Since I’m the one
With the coronary heart
Disease despite my
Sensibly healthy diet
For the last three
Decades—one has
That almost shaved
Hair style black women
Have worn for decades
That takes away nothing
From her feminine
Energy and seductiveness—
Thank God—
Then the George Schneeman/
Rudy Burkhardt show
At Tibor de Nagy—
Walking up Fifth Avenue
Passing all the tourists
And local business folks
The flock of teenage
Girls passing, noisy
And lovely in their
Self-centered-consciousness—
The Asian woman, lovely
Too, in fact model
Beautiful, I remember
Miles Davis’ weird take
On Asian women, that
You had to catch them
Out of the corner of
Your eye, no direct eye
Contact—I try it
And it works! We pass
And she smiles and I
Smile as I catch
Her catching me back—
[ . . . ]
The young black
Woman, maybe
Not more than twenty,
Cupping the tip
Of her cigarette to a
Lit match as she steps
Off the curb on Sixth
Avenue—taller than
Me, six feet at least—
Darker than my hair
Used to be, exquisitely alone—
[ . . . ]
Hell’s Kitchen where
My friend and fellow
Irish-American actor
John Michael Bolger
Resides[ . . . ] but
I can’t rouse him on the
Phone so I go alone to
52nd Street near 11th
Avenue to a tiny theater
“The Magic Show” to
Hear poets Simon Pettet
And Jack Collum read their
Work—and run into
Cecilia Vicuna after
All these years—decades—
Of digging her poetry from
Afar, our friendship still
Intact in our hearts
As we catch up—and the
Pain of life silences
Me for a moment—
[ . . . ]on the street today
More rain—flooded
Intersection at Second
Avenue and Fourth Street—
Sunday in summer—
Back to the Bowery
Remembering Burroughs
And his bunker—
My grown children
Coming through the
Door of poet Bob
Holman’s Bowery Poetry
Club across from
CBGBs—a block
From Second Avenue
Where Joe LeSeuer
Once lived, the poet
Frank O’Hara’s early
Love, who always
Spoke to me
As if we shared
Something like
Beauty—or attractiveness
That was an entre to a
World we might not other-
Wise have been welcomed
In—[ . . . ] Francesco
Clemente with a young
Black woman whose
Skin is so perfectly
Smooth and unmarked
It is art—Don Mc
Laughlin and Paul Harryn—
Artists also—here
To listen to a long
Poem of mine in
Book form as of today
—A way to celebrate it—
Poets Vincent Katz
—And his own little
Boys depicted on
The cover of what
We’re here to celebrate—
And Cecilia Vicuna,
John Godfrey, and
Ted Greenwald—
Elaine Equi and
Jerome Sala too—
Make my day so
Full I want to cry—
And do after they’ve
All gone and I’m alone[ . . . ]
The black woman
With the crazy hair
And smile—[ . . . ]—the
Gypsy looking girl in her
Sunday best—the Asian
Man who looks so fierce
—The piercing eyes of
The white woman with
Dark brown hair, the
Way she stares at me
In the mirror of the
Little dessert café on
Second Avenue—as
If to say “you know
It’s you”—I look away—
[ . . . ]
At the Chinese restaurant
In what looks like
The chandelier district—
Giant globs of illumination
Filling the store front
Windows, the only
Appetizer is a kind
Of porridge, but the
Added ingredients list
Is long and includes
“Pigs intestines” or “snails
Plus pigs liver” but
Poets Pettet and Vicuna
And me—we opt for
The vegetarian version—
Vicuna leans over
To me after we eat
And says “You have
Saved the honor of
American poets with
This poem Michael”
Meaning: “March 18,
2003”—she goes on
To explain some of
The technical achieve-
Ments of the poem as
Well, in terms that
Are so precise, yet
Lyrical, and gratifying,
I weep later to think
Of it—someone getting
It—what I intended—
What is all this crying
About?—from a man
Who never did for
Decades, and now at
The drop of a hat or
Compliment or sappy
Commercial on TV—
Today bright and
Summery, hot but
Breezy, the leftover
Puddles now looking
Like oil deposits—the
People like blossoms
Of pink and brown flesh—
I pass a lovely Asian
Woman and try the
Miles Davis technique
Again—look straight
Ahead until the last
Moment and then turn
My gaze toward her,
But only out of the
Corner of my eye,
My face still forward,
And sure enough I
Catch her checking
Me out and our eyes
Lock for the split
Second city sidewalk
Connection that promises
Nothing but fulfills
Almost everything a
Split second can—
[ . . . ]
The five police academy
Cadets—four “white”
One “black”—like the
Old days when “blacks”
Had to take careers
Beneath their brains
And talents and still
Be better at the basics
Than their “white”
Counterparts, the “black”
Cadet is the tallest,
Most self-contained,
Most handsome and
His clothes are sharp—
Pressed, perfectly
Fitted—his shoes
Shined better than
New, he looks like
A hero already—
A movie hero—
On the subway,
Seated in a row,
A muscle bound,
Tan, blonde, sleeveless
Tee shirted “white” man
In shorts, like an ad for a
Gay men’s magazine, next
To a short overweight man
Next to a stunning blonde
Woman, next to an even
More stunning Asian teen-
Ager, next to a middle-aged
Couple holding hands in
A way that seems like
Clutching for their lives
As they look around in
Amused bewilderment—
The twin brothers in
The Long Island Railroad
Station at 34th Street
Playing twin guitars—
One chording, one
Improvising a melody—
Exquisite music, fast
And wildly rhythmic
And joyful, I can’t help
Applauding when they
Finish with a run up the
Strings to so high pitched
It’s barely audible—
But no one else applauds—
A rush hour crowd but
Still enough people standing,
Not moving, listening, how
Could they not applaud?
A lot of impatience on
The street today, people
Barking into cell phones,
At each other, I try to
Help an Asian family
Obviously lost but they
Skitter away fearfully—
Me—old generic “white”
Man still scary?
Is it just the “war” news
Bringing almost everyone
Down except those
Causing it?—Or more?
The eyes of so many
“Black” women—so dark
And beautifully deep
Sometimes despite themselves—
A woman who could be
Sharon Stone without make-up—
With three kids, one still
Nursing—the woman’s
Wearing a billed cap, her
Children as blonde and
Modestly beautiful as
She is—though their
Eyes aren’t as tired
Looking, but still
Bright, as the woman’s
[ . . . ]
Spring Street and Broadway—
My old neighborhood—
Unrecognizable from what
It was thirty years
Ago—at West Broadway
Even more unfamiliar
Except for Golden Pizza
One block over—
[ . . . ]
The rain and wind
Are whipping people—
Umbrellas almost beside
The point as I make it
Down into Prince Street
Station and onto the R train
Where four very large
And imposing African-
American men, and an
Equally large African-
American woman—all five
Shades of skin color—
Push in before the doors
Close and the freckle
Faced reddish haired
One, what my Southern
Black friends used to
Call “redbone” makes
An announcement
That he and his “brothers
And sister” would like
To sing a song for us
And they break into
An accapela version
Of “The Lion Sleeps
Tonight” that rocks
The subway car
More than the tired
Old tracks and tunnels
We’re pummeling
Through and puts a
Smile on my face—
And some coins
And greenbacks in
The brown paper
Collection bag—
[ . . . ]
Walking up Eighth Avenue
I spot the short gray
Haired man who played
A waiter in “Everyday
People” handing out
Flyers for some business—
I stop to tell him how
Much I liked his work
In the film—he seems
Very pleased, as I always
Am when someone
Stops me to tell of
Their appreciation
Of my work—his name
Is Victor—he goes back
To handing out flyers—
There’s a taste of Fall
In the air today—
Even a leaf or two
Turning yellow or red
In the park cutting
Through Union Square—
[ . . . ]
The pear shaped woman
With purple hair ahead
Of me on lower Broadway—
The two young blondes
Obviously models—one
Giving off an almost
Tactile sense of petulance—
The Starbuck’s on Astor
Place—the mix of semi-
Bohemian and generic
Normalcy in styles of
Dress and ornamentation—
Like the young almost
Attractive blonde woman
With the tee shirt ad-
Vertising the “original
Bada Bing Club” in
New Jersey, talking on
Her cell phone “Oh my God”—
The overweight black
Woman yelling at
Someone “I got a kid
At home yo size’ll
Kick yo motherfuckin’
Ass” as she enters a
Parking lot booth past
A little girl, maybe eight
Or nine with her hair
In plaits like little black
Girls had even when I
Was a boy—is she talking
To her?—if so the child
Seems unfazed—but how
Could she be?—
[ . . . ]
The stunning red
Head walking up the
Slight incline of
Madison Avenue South
Of Forty-Second Street
Wearing a rust colored
Dress—she must be six
One at least—not model
Stunning—everyday
Woman stunning—
Refreshing in fact, like
A 1940s movie star
Without the studio hype
Or fabricated glamour—
Men in what remind
Me of 1950s “pedal pushers”
My sisters used to wear—
That leave the lower
Calf exposed—how un-
Expected—some things
Do seem new sometimes—
The mouse—large—or
Maybe baby rat—
Running across Broadway
At Madison Square
Park with me and
Others crossing in the
Crosswalk as if it
Too had been waiting
For the light to change—
People startled by it,
Exclaiming “Shit!”—
“Oh my God”—“Goddamn!”—
Or “What the fuck?!”—
It beats us all to the
Sidewalk where more
People notice—stop—swear—
Then changes course and
Runs back to the street
Only this time heading
South on Broadway
Hugging the curb—all
This in the middle of
A sunny Autumn day—
An older black bike messenger
Refuses to stop for a red light—
Going through it to
Veer around a bus in the
Cross street without
Knowing what’s on the
Other side of it but
Obviously sensing the
Time he has to make it
As he just barely does—
The variety! The various
Shades of skin and com-
Bination of features—
Some people could be
From places yet to be
Discovered—or the
Children of couples
So unexpected no
Film or novel or
TV show or current
History book has yet
To reveal them—
That beautiful woman—
Part African, part
Asian, part European,
Part island, part nomad,
Part city, part star,
Part future, part statue,
Part schedule, part job,
Part sport, part ambition,
Part dream, part answer—
The Gotham Book Mart
Gone from where it was—
My heart stops when
My eyes can’t find
That familiar sign—
“Wise men fish here”—
I panic for a few moments
At the thought of all
That has passed away—
Then learn they only
Moved, as I knew they
Were planning to do—but
I also have seen that
“Move” turn into never—
Like the old Phoenix
Bookstore in the Village
Where I sold old signed
Books and reviewers copies
To feed my two oldest
Kids and me when we
Were barely surviving—
Walking through Washington
Square at night—the
Refurbished arch—the
Run down rest of it—
Rats scurry and squeak
On the cracked and
Bumpy paths that once
Were new or renewed—
[ . . . ]
After the reading
At Washington Square
Church, many teary
Eyed people asking:
“Has it ever been worse?”
Meaning our country’s
Political situation—
In our lifetime—not
The country’s obviously—
This is no civil war—yet—
[ . . . ]
Almost hit by another
Bike messenger—this
One a male Hispanic—
They just ignore signals
And foot traffic—which
Come to think of it most
Pedestrians, including me,
Do too—
I pass a white man
With a full head of
Gray hair in a perfect
Replica of what was
Common in 1954—and
He has on a white tee
Shirt with the hemline
Folds in the sleeves and
Denims, both also ala
1954—on a younger
Man it would be retro—
But this man is my
Age—is it possible he
Has kept this style
Intact through five
Decades?—why not?—
The black man with
Dreadlocks down to his
Waist on a bright green
Motorcycle with “Ninja”
Written in script on its side—
In Penn station, a few
Days before the convention—
I walk maybe twenty
Yards to the stairs
Down the platform
For my train and pass
At least fifty uniformed
Policemen—half of
Them yawning—working
Overtime obviously—
Back on the street—
The brightness of the day
And my heart that
All this beauty brings—
I love the women who enjoy
The pleasure their beauty
Gives the rest of us—
An overweight white
Woman in a pleated
Skirt passes me—
The way the skirt moves
As she walks by is
So feminine, so sensual—
Would any man feel
That way?—or only
Those my age who
Grew up in a time
Of pleated skirts and
The rhythmic allure
Of women’s clothes that
Moved when they did,
But to their own secret
Beat beyond any man’s
Capacity for counterpoint—
Today in Penn Station
Even more cops, and
Military in camouflage
Fatigues, which of course
Blend into nothing here
And only make their presence
Stand out more—the
Idea I assume—and
Canine cops too—
German Shepards who
Act like professionals—
More than the beat cops do—
Some of whom are
Very young and female
And beautiful in their
Ethnic variety—
The convention starts
Today—it’s difficult
To get to Penn Station
Now—most trains to
Jersey stop running for
The entire week—
The mood on the street
Is festive if practical—
No minds are going to
Be changed here—too
Bad—life goes on as it
Has lately—seemingly
Normal except for the
Stress which the “be-
In” atmosphere of
The demonstrations—
To use Bill Lanigan’s
Description—only
Temporarily relieves—
All types of people on
The street—all ages—
All sizes—all shades
Of skin color—all varieties
Of ethnicity—is it
Me or is our side
Just naturally more
Diverse?—To save my
Heart from the stress
I’m avoiding the con-
Vention coverage—just
Digging the anti-convention
Festive atmosphere of a
City that mostly doesn’t
Seem to give a damn
Except for the inconvenience—
The police presence on
34th Street at Herald Square
Where barricades keep me
From jaywalking—mostly
Young officers or maybe
Still only cadets, quick
To anger, frustrated with
The normal New York
Pedestrian flow—then
On 35th St. a car runs
A red light almost hitting
Me, and there, a crowd of
Eight cops leans against
A black and white
Chatting, oblivious to
What might have
Been a terrorist bearing
Down on them through
The intersection but
More likely a commuter
From New Jersey—
The demonstrators
Are getting arrested
In the hundreds—
More than a thousand
With little or no media
Coverage beyond the
Local, unlike the ’60s—
[ . . . ]
The convention is long
Gone—more arrests
Than in the so-called
Riots in Chicago in ’68—
[ . . . ]
In the hospital—
More cleaning of the
Arteries, of the stent
That shouldn’t need it—
How did Cheney and I
End up in the same boat—
The most beautiful
Day of the year!—
And tomorrow
The third anniversary
Of another beautiful day
When everyone realized how
Vulnerable we all are—
Though as always, some
More than others—
Last week the third
Anniversary of my cancer
Being removed, and of
My finally accepting the
Inevitable—or not so much
Acceptance as surrender—
[ . . . ]
My heart problems—though still
So difficult for me to
Comprehend—the cancer
Was so much more
Straightforward and clear—
And still that young light
Haired longhaired woman
In the beige jeans gives
Me a look of interest—
I wonder—but no—
She’s doing it again—
Maybe it’s the distance—
She can’t see the fear
And disappointment in
My eyes—the age in
My neck and hands—
The shortness in my
Breath and discomfort
In my chest—I’m not
Ready for this—too bad—
[ . . . ]
In a cab going up
8th Avenue—Fall in
The air—I’d rather be
Walking, but just out
Of the hospital—not
Supposed to yet—though
Walking is the answer
[ . . . ]
At the Northeast corner
Of 42nd Street and Sixth
Avenue, eight motorcycle
Cops, parked, reading papers,
Lounging, in short sleeve
Summer uniforms—the rest
Of us a little more clothed
In the 8:30 AM Autumn chill—
[ . . . ]
Five mounted police riding
Their steeds down Seventh
Avenue—the incongruity
Of what, when my father
Was a boy a hundred years
Ago, would have been in-
Congruous in the other direction—
The way some black women
Use their long nails to
Scratch their heads between
The cornrows or extensions—
A summer day in Fall—
80 degrees at lunchtime
In Bryant Park—full of
People glowing in the sun
Light—three women—
In theirs 20s and 30s,
I would guess, stand
Out as I pass through—
One looks vaguely middle
Eastern—but in long
Fitted gray skirt and a
Top that suggests a woman’s
Business suit and long
Thick curly black hair—
Olive skin—dark eyes—
Bright smile as she tries
To locate her friends on
Her cell phone, them waving
At her as I approach their
Table, her somewhere
Behind me now—another—
Tall, slim, light-skinned
African American with
Obvious European ancestry,
Mid length hair, glasses
Over green eyes, lovely
Smile as she passes
With a young white
Man as tall as her—
And me—her in jeans
And pastel shirt, shining
With health and heart—
The third I passed earlier,
An Asian woman also with
Some European “blood”
As they used to say, short
Hair, Buster Brown style
Only with blonde touches—
Glasses too, a fifties kind
Of summer dress, tight at
The waist, flared below,
Sitting at a table talking
To a more ordinary looking
Young Asian woman but
She catches my eye as I
Walk by and I feel flattered
By the sense I have of
Her being flattered by my
Attention—am I imagining
That, or is my ego? Or is
She truly pleased to be
Noticed for all her stylistically
Original flare—
Three black guys in
Herald Square, one with
Baseball hat backwards,
One side ways—Rootie
Kazootie or Flava Flav
Style, one hatless with
Shaved head—each
Seeming to fit that
Detail—the backwards
Hat guy all regular Joe,
Or Tyrone, the sideways
Guy the goof but with
An edge of danger, and
The shaven headed one
The authority, talking
Forcefully, making his point—
[ . . . ]
The funkiness of Eighth
Avenue as I cut from
34th to 49th—even the
Sidewalks seem dirtier—
A throwback to Manhattan
Of the 1970s—just
One block over, on Seventh
Avenue the young women
Are thinner, with more
Perfect features, except for
The pair of transsexuals I
Pass at 39th—black and white
And perfect in their “faux”
Femininity—
[ . . . ]
The handsome black man
In Penn Station, decked
Out in slim overcoat with
Suit and tie underneath,
All GQ upscale “clean”
As we used to say,
And on his arm an equally
Attractive Asian woman—
Both in their twenties or
Thirties I’d guess—young
To me—the glee I feel
In their impressive
Display of dapper
Fashion maturity—
[ . . . ]
Next day in Chelsea
Market, no Green Table
Anymore—that solicitous
Waitress gone with it—
And later
Try Victoria’s in
The fashion district
But it too, after decades,
Closed—so much has
Passed, as I pass another
Woman, gray haired,
My age maybe, but
Beautiful in ways that
Seem new—like those
Gray haired models in
The TV commercials
Or magazine ads—my
Contemporaries finding
Life, after the so-called
“Change,” more
Liberating than we knew—
[ . . . ]
God bless us all, as snow
Falls in Central Park and
My heart harks back to
Simpler times, no, not the
Times but us—or me—
Now comforted by
A glimpse of the dimple
On the back of a knee
Spied between the
High top boot and hem
Of skirt, winking at me,
As if to say, today’s
Another day to be grateful
For being alive—again—
And when is just—eternity.
Jan-Dec 2004
Before you were born
I knew how to be happy.
The secret isn’t a secret.
Just feel grateful enough
and the heart opens up
and becomes love going
out, which is the secret.
Ah, but what to be grateful
for, when they’ve robbed
the store, and are making
off with our money
and our country? That’s easy:
you.
Bambi’s
Dumbo’s
Juno
Jane Darwell as Ma Joad in GRAPES OF WRATH
SHAFT
1
Just took a pretty brisk walk, several blocks,
in the cool, crisp, air.
A bright and shiny day, at times almost chilly,
but felt so good to be out and feeling stronger.
The caw of a lone crow was so sharp and clarion,
it felt like the definition of what it means to be alive.
The last leaves still falling, the endless (we hope)
natural cycles.
How wonderful and fine life is when the possibility
of losing it becomes so current and realistic.
To be alive, what can disturb the awe of that
realization? Today, nothing.
2
It’s been difficult for me to listen to music
since the brain surgery. The sounds that
normally blend into a cohesive whole in
most recordings, my brain was somehow
atomizing into discrete units that made
each musical moment sound overwhelm-
ingly complicated—jarringly, gratingly so.
Difficult to explain or articulate. I tried
one day on my first outing in my little
town where I was being helped by my
friend Sue Brennan and ran into another
friend, the great jazz pianist, Bill Charlap.
I was excited to communicate what I
was experiencing with music, but I’m
afraid I came off as a little out of my
mind, which is of course partly what
this whole experience has been about.
But yesterday, I tried listening to some
music again and it sounded close to
normal. I hit the shuffle key on my lap
top and the first tune was an old Billie
Holiday recording from the early ’30s,
THESE’N’THAT’N’THOSE (beautiful tone
to her voice) followed, as it happened,
by Bill Charlap’s trio’s version of SOME
OTHER TIME, as close to Bill Evans as is
humanly possible, while still being Char-
lap. A haunting tune, one of my favorites.
So, I had the same sensation
when I went out this morning
after more than two feet of
snow had fallen that I always
have after an intense snow-
storm: awe and joy. You
might say easy for me since
neighbors charitably snow
blew the sidewalk in front of
the old house my apartment
is in, and others shoveled the
walk to the sidewalk before
I could (though I shoveled
the porch and steps late last
night and some more this AM).
But in previous years, before
my kids and loved ones kept
warning me not to shovel (well
actually they were doing it then
too but I ignored them) I loved
shoveling snow the morning after
a snow storm. I would do it in
short spurts with lots of resting
on the shovel handle digging
that unique post-snow silence—
none of the usual world’s sounds
(aided by no cars driving by).
The brightness of the almost
cloudless sky, the blue of it
seemingly the only color
along with the pure white of
unsullied snow blown into
sensuous curves covering
everything—in some spots as
high as four foot drifts—and
the dark of tree trunks and limbs
where the snow had blown off.
I wish I could take a photo on
my phone and transfer it to this
poem, but I’m a little techno-
dyslexic. And the limitations of
any photograph would stop me
anyway. There’s no way to
capture being surrounded by
a few feet of new fallen snow
under a bright blue sky with
the few nearby sounds coming
across as distant, or so muffled
they seem distant. In my almost
twenty years in L.A. I missed
just this, so I’m grateful for it,
at least today, before it begins to
melt and the slush in the street
gets sprayed onto the snowbanks
turning them into something less
pleasant. But for now, I can even
shrug off the old grammar school
friend turned rightwing troll who
can’t stop his rightwing parroting,
this morning asking how I like
my two feet of global warming.
The guy actually thinks because
we had a blizzard after the most
snow-free winter ever, that some-
how that negates the reality that
2015 was the warmest year on
record and 2014 the warmest
before that. It would be pathetic
if it wasn’t emblematic of the
brainwashing fossil-fuel coin
has bought in recent decades.
Take it easy?
How many fuckin times
did I hear that when
I was a kid. And a
young man. And a
middle-aged man.
Take it easy Michael,
take it easy son, take
it easy brother, take it
easy man, take it easy
mister. Lot easier to
say than do.
How the fuck do you
take it easy when
you’re born into a
world that’s more
violent than it’s ever
been.
I’m not talkin about
now I’m talkin about
when I was born into
World War Two the
bloodiest period in
history.
How you supposed to
take it easy when you
look around and people
are talkin about shit
you know isn’t true as
though it is true.
I’m not talkin about
Trump I’m talkin about
people makin general-
izations when I was
young about black
people and white
people and I didn’t
see anybody who was
white or black, I saw
people that were
gradations from fair
to dark, and everything
in between.
They even had fuckin
laws that didn’t make
no sense. You could have
a man or woman who
looked as pale as a bone
who they said was legally
black and someone who
had darker skin than them
passing for so-called white
and how was a kid or a
young person or a middle-
-aged human or even an
old one supposed to take
it easy with so much fuckin
hypocrisy all around them . . . .
But I eventually learned,
how to at least sometimes
take it easy, because
not takin it easy cost me
so much, not just jobs and
friends and lovers and
careers and prizes and
money and security and
serenity and health but it
became clear that not
takin it easy often made
things worse than what
had made me not take it
easy at first . . .
On the other hand, when
I was a kid and someone
said take it easy when they
were leaving, it was just
a hipper way of saying
goodbye, but it implied a
kind of admonition to be
cool, what I always longed
to be but couldn’t quite
achieve because my
unforgiving temper was
so hot and got me into
all my troubles . . . it’s not
that way as much anymore
since I learned and earned
the right to take it easy
more and more . . . though
if you get me at the right
or wrong moment, depending
on your view, I can seem
to take it easy now when
I’m secretly saying fuck you
Back when that Bush Tetras song
became the anthem of the down
town scene, in the 1970s I knew,
we’d add our own list of what
there were too many of, like
yuppies, lawyers and real
estate speculators buying up
the lofts we lived in illegally,
forseeing the powers that be
changing the laws in time
for the yuppies and lawyers
and real estate speculators to
buy up our neighborhoods
we never called “Soho” or
“Tribeca” but instead “So What”
and “Washington Market”
as it had always been known . . .
Now the list would go on
forever, like too many lies,
and too many people believing
them, and too many filthy
rich greedheads rigging the
game and then blaming
the rest of us for problems
they cause, and too many
people in poverty and
deprivation, too many of
them homeless, and too many
evictions of poor people, and
too many bullies, and too
many cars, and too many
TVs, and too many eyes on
too many screens, and too
many scams, and too many
overworked underpaid
people, and too many tax
exempt churches and
football stadiums, and too
many fundamentalist Christians
and Jews and Muslims and
Ayn Randians, and too many
hypocritical politicians and
pundits, and, What about too
many poems, you might ask,
and I’d respond There can
never be too many poems . . .
You want someone to blame?
Blame the racists, cause maybe
not everyone who voted for him
was a racist, but every racist
who voted, voted for him. Blame
white women, more of whom
voted for him than for her.
Blame the Latinos who voted
for him at a higher percentage
than voted for Romney. Blame
the African-Americans who
didn’t vote, or vote for her, but
voted for Obama. Blame the lefties
who spent the election campaign
bashing her, or the election
voting in protest for anybody
but her, which was in effect a
vote for him. Blame Julian
Assange and Wikileaks for
targeting her and not him.
Blame her for one of the
lamest slogans ever—I mean,
I’m with her?—what does
that promise?—and a logo
that looked like an Amtrak
sign from 1980. Blame the
Democratic Party which used
to know in its bones that “all
politics is local” but forgot,
letting the Republicans co-opt
that strategy, starting with
school boards that control what
our kids are taught. Blame the
media, or its audience, for not
being able to make money on
facts or anything else that isn’t
sensational or divisive. Blame
old people for being afraid of
the future, and young people
for thinking the future was
theirs without a price to be
paid. Blame Russia, and China,
and Mexico, and Japan (wait,
scratch Japan, that was the
1980 election). Blame the
stars, blame the gods, blame
Ayn Rand and Fox News and
Irish-American traitors to their
ancestors: Hannity and O’Reilly
and their ilk. Blame fucking any-
one and anything, but yourself.
The day after I was born,
German U boat 106 sank
a US tanker in the Gulf of
Mexico. Twenty-two were
killed. Hitler and his allies
had been winning World
War Two and it looked like
they were about to take
over the world. Including
the USA. Three years later
Germany surrendered and
the war in Europe was over,
followed pretty soon after
by the end of the war in the
Pacific. In my brief three
year old life the world had
witnessed the greatest
death and destruction in
the history of humanity. It
was tragic and deeply sad
but even so, great acts of
courage and kindness,
sacrifice and love were
committed, great art and
music and movies and
more were made. Nothing
anywhere near as massively
brutal and deadly has occurred
since. Despite continuing wars
and oppression, the world has
not in my now seventy-four
years ever been as violent
or destructive as it was then.
That’s not to slight the severity
of anyone’s experience of
repression or cruelty, but
only to say as my old friend
Hubert Selby used to, that “You
can’t have up without down,
success without failure,
pleasure without pain,” and I
would add, dark days without
ones filled with light. Let us
be that light for those who will
need it now.
I was born into a war and world where
Most thought they’d be speaking German
Or Japanese soon. Then the times changed.
My paternal grandfather lived down the
Street. He’d been born into a thatch roofed
dirt floor cottage in Ireland at a time when
Native Irish were depicted In the English
Press as an inferior race, often equated with
Native Africans. Then the times changed.
My father was born into the end of the 19th
Century, dropped out of grammar school to
Go to work in a hardware store to help his
Family and ended up owning the store by
The time he was twenty and many more by
The time he was thirty at the height of The
Jazz Age. Then the times changed and The
Great Depression began, and, as he liked to
say: “The big boys bought back everything
I owned for a dime on the dollar, and some-
Times a nickel.” My maternal grandmother
Burned all the I.O.U’s to her husband after
He died and she moved in with us, saying
He would have wanted it that way. I helped
Care for her all through my boyhood and
Teenage years before I left home. The best
Lesson she taught me was: “If you’re born
To be hung, you’ll never be shot.” My mother
Was a high school graduate making her the
Intellectual authority in our household. She
Was born in Newark in a neighborhood where
Her mother remembered what they called
Then “race wars” between the earlier German
Settlers and the newly arrived Irish. Then the
Times changed. Her mother couldn’t vote
When she was twenty-one but my mother
Could, thanks to the new law letting women.
When I was stationed in the then legally
So-called racially segregated South Carolina
In 1962, African-Americans weren’t allowed
To go to the drive-in movie in their own cars,
That’s how bad it was. And when I went to a
Greenville bookstore looking for James Baldwin’s
Latest book, they didn’t have it, and wouldn’t
Order it, and the library said the same, so I had
One of my sisters buy it in Newark and send it
To me. The only integrated place I found down
There was a home that hosted secret meetings
Of the Ba’Hai faith, one of many spiritual paths
I tried on in my youth. And then the times they
Changed. My oldest children were born into a
World where men didn’t raise kids on their own
Even though I did. And then the times changed.
When my youngest was born at the end of the
Last century, Bill Clinton was called “The first
Black president.” And then the times changed.
When our latest White House occupant won
Many citizens felt so despondent they found it
Hard to go about their daily lives and get any-
Thing done at all. But the day after he moved
In, The Resistance did begin, and once again:
“THE TIMES / THEY ARE / A-CHANGIN’.”
We are here. This is what is happening. And
the first step to changing any of it is acceptance
of what already is. It’s bad enough politicians
use the phrase “The American People” followed
by “demand” or “want” or “believe” or “support”
or whatever. As if they aren’t aware of the divi-
sions in our populace, that is so stridently po-
larized a cheap con artist can get appointed
president. Enough with the wishful-thinking or
deliberately-misleading or just-plain-ignorant
appellation “The American People” as subject
or object of any sentence from now on. I know:
If Only. Though the good going on—and going
to, and coming out of—recent hurricanes, earth-
quakes, fires, and even massacres, elevates us all
with the truth that there’s a lot of love in a lot
of humans, manifested in caring about others in
trouble, including, most importantly, strangers.
The bad going on, and going to, and coming
out of, recent hurricanes, earthquakes, fires,
and massacres, is the direct result of personal
and corporate greed, and the actions of those
who serve it. Like the deliberate ignoring or
deregulation of safety standards for guns or
construction or overdevelopment, or our air
and water, screens and ear buds, planning
and lives. Human Need vs. Corporate Greed.
But, do not despair. The lies and hate and
fear, the mass hysteria and mass hypnosis,
smothering the so-called social media(s),
have always existed side by side with the
sweetness and romance and struggle to find
—to get as close as possible to—the truth,
no matter what it may be, or turn into. We
are all losers and winners, veterans of life
and naïve beginners. And one day will all
be the Finishers. For now, let the focus be
on the survival of the victims, innocent or
not. Love is always the ultimate resistance . . .