Another Way to Play
Page 37
[ . . . ]
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
TO MY SON FLYNN
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.
MOST MEMORABLE MOVIE MOTHERS
Bambi’s
Dumbo’s
Juno
Jane Darwell as Ma Joad in GRAPES OF WRATH
SHAFT
TWO POST-BRAIN-OPERATION OBSERVATIONS
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 recor
ding 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.
BLIZZARD OF ’16
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