t apostrophe

there was a fountain in Paris. i sat by the fountain in the afternoon. i was one of the loneliest there amidst all the strangers passing by. there among the cobble stone streets. amidst the smells of antiquity. i had heard that Nick Drake, when he was alive,  would come down from England and get lost in Paris. Nick Drake, who, when i heard his voice for the first time i thought  was a hill dweller, a sage on the burning shores of Africa somewhere, not a proper Englishman. the fountain spurt behind me and Nick Drake, on my headphones, (solitary headphone world),  sang me the songs of solitude and beauty, breaking my heart there, and i knew his loneliness as i stared at the buildings. something calls me...

maybe go out, maybe stay home, maybe call mom on the telephone, well come on!

Open mic night

   There were kids, 1 and 2 year olds, in the bar, walking around with tiny balloons and knocking over drinks. Innocent little drunks they were and fun to watch. Two brothers set up shop on the street corner. The older one 7, on electric guitar and the younger one 5, played a snare drum with a little cymbal attached. They played out there for hours to the great amusement of the hipsters who'd gather before them for a song or two or three, having come from the park or somewhere else where the sun shone freely. They were amazing, with way too much rock star power, so natural and with cool hairdos. I sat with their parents who were from Dallas and must have been in bands all their lives themselves. I said to the girl next to me, "those kids are amazing!" and she said,"did you talk to them yet? oh you got to talk to them, they've already met David Bowie and it's like nothing to them." The kids were rocking out where we could see and hear them from inside while the younger toddlers monkeyed around the place. When the babies inside got their hands on the wrought iron gate that separated us from the street corner concert on view it made a strange  and magnificent industrial noise that mixed with the guitar and clatter the little rockers made. "The real sonic youth!" i thought. The sunset turned the odd scene orange. The youngest of the bunch walked over to me with an offering of his little blue balloon but quickly pulled it away when i went to grab it. How do these damn kids learn so fast!

    An old man walked into the room. He had white hair and a white shirt. He seemed to be oblivious to the circus going on. He was well into his seventies and God bless him for coming out for a drink on a fine Sunday night in his local neighborhood. THe waitress smiled at me, an extended gaze, her face lit up..."hello?" but then she looked away, another case of mistaken identity when she later apologized and said that she thought i was someone from back home. If everyone could look on each other with those types of eyes she gave to me the world would be a much better place. The old man disappeared for a few only to return with a lefty acoustic in hand and i quickly realized that he too was there for the open mic. I walked over and said " hey, if you are here for the open mic the sign- up is at the bar" he replied "yeah i know, i already signed up" he put out his hand, i shook his hand and he said " you might want to wash that, i just smoked a doobie." 

    

The old man, Joe, was there to pay tribute to his musical idol Hank Williams who he said he had seen way back in the day. Joe had in fact been a local and has been in Greenpoint for the better part of 72 years. I sat with Joe the rest of the night because he was alone and i was alone.  

i had arrived 2 1/2 hours early for the event. with all the festivities, that orange sun and now the company of a new friend, i grew drunk while waiting and taking it all in. i have still not yet conquered my crippling stage fright which is all psychological and probably has most to do with a deep need to be appreciated or loved and the anticipation of it finally occurring and for my art no less, which would be a bonus. truthfully, i have strangled this down but can't seem to completely still those jitters, lord knows i've had my mishaps on stage. nevertheless, i sprinted my way through many pints of my favorite draft beer amidst the tempered anxiety of it all just below the surface. 

Joe sang three Hank williams songs up there and i felt like i had a grandfather who played guitar. those Hank Williams songs are drinking songs and i raise my glass to Joe's guts, getting up there like that and doing his thing.

I took the stage after Joe and sang my songs but again broke my self imposed golden rule to never say too much and just play. the lights up there are blinding, it's like what i'd imagine the lights of heaven opening up are like and beyond them the voice of god, only beyond these lights are a far lesser force of indifferent hipsters strewn about ready for their own credulous moment of adulation. anyway, what do you say to god when blinded by his lights?...and slightly drunken? my tendency is to apologize for myself, but, many many hours of playing private concerts in my bedroom made up for my apparent sloppiness and my songs, thankfully, went over very well indeed.

After that i hit the street with my man Joe. We talked about his neighborhood and how it changed over the years. He said everyone around here at one time new each other and now that has all changed. he sounded bitter about it. He asked me,"tell me how the world is a better place today?" i said "well. it's smaller, you know, i could record a song on a monday morning, upload it onto the internet in the afternoon and it could be heard in Japan 6 hours later. that's pretty amazing" I don't think that was Joe's type of thing. Instead, we sat in a doorway and i listened to him play Hank Williams songs which seemed to be quite fitting to my life these days and i sang a few for him as well. We must of looked like two hobos on the street or maybe local grandfather and grandson enjoying a sunday night, although we were lit.

Joe eventually split and i went inside for a chicken sandwich. an english kid and another guy kept staring at me from across the room but i paid them no mind. the waitress hovered near by but i had nothing else to say and the food was good.

recession

no more dry cleaners except for very important occasions, dress shirts go in the laundry with socks and underwear, iron each one individually.

homemade lunches, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tuna fish, need to cut down on the tuna fish for all those heavy metals.

i've gone through three pair of shoe laces on my black shoes. my black shoes have walked many miles. almost sole-less soulful black shoes.

plastic cups for spare change picked bare of quarters. shared housing with maniacs.

shave my own head over the sink, no shampoo needed.

tip the bartender one dollar. one dollar for their shitty attitude most of the time. 

two if they've got a heart which is hard to find in the hip side of brooklyn.

manager's specials in the meats aisle, portions for freezing.

onions last for days in air tight tupperware plastics tucked in the back of the refrigerator.

no more holidays, the black cadillac will have to wait a few

no more trappist beer or french wines

no filet mignon, no more hot pink dinner jackets to look like a fool in

no more full body massages,

no more korean yoga classes

no more handsome guitars or batcave electronics

no more high maintenance lovers and their parents to impress.

free meals welcome, leftovers appreciated

6 day work weeks, stolen moments for daydreaming where bosses can't see,

angel kisses cease to exist

broken noses get handed down blind sided 

dirt sandwiches in a dust bowl of raw deals

weathering all the hysterics

of the golden storm

for the poem

which will be around

long after these withered bones

are dug up by scavenger dogs

on a hot night in July.

clam bake

i walked in my slippers to the asian market.

i found the red potatoes in a basket below the large counters of fruit.

i carefully chose 5 handsome ones

"these will do" although i should have chosen 8.

8 potatoes would have filled the bottom of the pot just right.

then i went to the area where the fish were on display,

some of them still alive and swimming in unnatural pools of water, crammed in there

looking out at me.

(the smell of the salty ocean on ice and it's leaking on the linoleum floor)

i found a sack of clams and another green net tied up around a pound of mussels

the mussels were exotic and black with lost tales of sea boats in their friendly toothless grins,

the shrimp were headless and piled on each other in a tray of ice by way of frozen stowaway

hailing from morocco

i packed a dozen or so in a plastic bag and sealed it with a quick knot

the chicken broth was hard to find as i lingered down the aisle of cooking wines and sherry

there was a woman there in a black cocktail dress and silver high heels

she looked like japanese royalty in my periphery

as i searched the jars covered in chinese letters for the broth 

she stood by my side, i studied those bottles

then suddenly she ran away and i watched her run wondering "why did she run?"

she raced, as if to get away from me, high heeled empress of japan

i scared her away! queen of the cooking sauce aisle "don't run from me! i'm just looking for a can of chicken broth" but she wouldn't be the first or the last to go running away

and i watched her cover the length of asian spices,  running in 5 inch silver heels

i found what i needed down the aisle of cereal and cans of readymade soup

i picked up two salted sticks of butter and thought about my heart.

and all i needed was some vermouth 

which they didn't carry at the market

so i went next door to the liquor store with the friendly german proprietor

there was a line there and  it was crammed, 

and i saw my neighbor, the drunk old man from across the street who sits on his stoop

at night and when i get home shouts indecipherable greetings from across the way

"hey man, where can i find a bottle of vermouth?"

"look on this side because THIS side is just wine"

i picked a sweet vermouth and a cheap california white wine that was already chilled

the german gave me back change for the full amount of the two bottles

i said "hey that's bad business, you want this"

and he smiled, embarrassed at his mistake

all of those things in a pot,

those shells opening like women's legs in heat

the presence of the deep blue sea

that washes away all minutia

with it's lungs everlasting capacity for water

and the decadence of butter

and wine

over the crackle of fire and wrinkle of aluminum foil

i added my mother's peppers

and some onions

corn on the cob

as it bubbled over the open flame

and when i removed the lid

a mushroom cloud of smoke shot up into the summer sky

(swat at mosquitos

fireflies jewel the air)

the feast brought on indian visions

because the land is fertile

and the spirit wants to be full

and i am blessed to be feeding

atop the forgotten soils 

of Gitchi Manitou

The human spirit is frail. Forbidding it its vain delights will serve no purpose. Therefore, you will undoubtedly abuse yourselves and each other. While doing so, however, bear in mind that-as you have been taught-whatever you do you must do with one mind. When you eat you must be aware of each mouthful. When you breathe, each lungful. and it is the same with all else. You may gratify your flesh, but you must remain conscious of your gratification. It is not a question of savoring, as though in a hot bath. It is a question of being almost hostilely aware, of being almost painfully knowledgeable of the moment's authenticity. For this is reality.--ZEN INKLINGS, DONALD RICHIE

d in the afternoon

it's an odd sight when a pigeon doesn't flee

and it just stays there

as you approach

and you could feel it growing alarmed

but unable to fly away

so was the case one sunny afternoon

as I walked to my front door

a blue headed pigeon

with amethyst eyes

and black hole pupils

and a broken wing

perched on the railing

above my stoop

waiting to die

this little tragedy of a bird

on the clearest day of the year

learning what we will all know

in it.

it's bird mind finally

filled with wisdom

cried to me there

crossing the boundaries of species

through it's perfect circle eye

and said

"leave me here

for these last hours

to let what has happened

run it's full course

you who is healthy and young

who i've watched from above

who has full command over me

at this moment

for you too

will meet a day

when your wing will be broken

and your wish will be

to go peacefully

under a blanket of blue skies

and the glory of a sunny day"

and so i respected it's dying wishes