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 a
nd 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-
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