Another Way to Play
Page 36
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 1
950s “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—