Alphabet City

Latest Entries »

If You Saw Him, You’d Know Who I Mean

Filed under: Poetry — 1 Comment

June 13, 2013

He ran a calloused thumb,
over the Zippo flywheel,
out of flint and Ronson.

An older guy, the Navy taught him
to run between raindrops on flightdecks.

On the Boston when Spearhead Marines hit Iwo,
works now at Gabrow’s Toy Store,
there on Avenue B.

Runs numbers for Connie from the pizza store,
who works for Lucy, whose married to
Tony the Barber.

Watches Bilko, Burns, and the Beaver,
has a crush on Coca and Miss Brooks both,
fancies himself to be Palladin.

Sometimes hangs with Blackie from the garage,
or Alvie the addict,
remember – he used to date Momo’s girl?

Got beat up by the guys from Avenue D,
who thought he was someone else.

Has an egg-cream and Joyva jelly bars,
every day at Sid’s,
with the kids
when they come home from school.

Owns Action comics, one through ten,
in absolute mint condition.

But he’s misplaced his reel-to-reels, the original satins,
Art Blakey live at Birdland.

Knows how to treat a lady during slow dances,
like the Elevator, the Five Hundred, The Press.

Likes taking his time,
with Bonomo Turkish Taffy.

Is a Dodger fan,
but secretly likes Rizzuto.

Will not live to see fifty,
killed by a time traveler with a knife and a cape.

Tags: Art Blakey, Avenue D, Birdland, Boston, Joyva, Press, Sid, Zippo

Comment

Break A Dish, Bang A Pot

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment

So I am obliged to carry
your walking dead.

Or should I just shrug it off
down the line?

Neither here, nor there
we play peek-a-boo.

Puffed copters,
confetti on the floor.

This room,
this thought.

It’s New Year’s Eve.
“You there! In the rubber-band hat!”

Come quickly,
they’re dropping the ball!

Yours is a question of trust,
mine is one of ethic.

People willing to say:
here’s what I know, take what I have.

A kiss at Times Square,
January steam rising from warm lips.

When young deejays and flames,
still had their whole lives ahead.

Tags: Dick Clark, Holiday, New Year, New Years Eve

Comment

A Pied Balloon

Filed under: Poetry — 1 Comment

June 12, 2013

The arc of my float,
over the village,
a shallow parabola,
steady, deliberate
Pan on a taut guide,
level with those in the loge.

No one flies like this these days,
not like this anymore;
jump, trust, merge into updraft,
simple flip-gravity, easier to float
if you close your eyes.

How I love ascension,
my body carved, massages the flight:
Victory winged at Samothrace.

I’m young and crazed,
a romantic in the gondola, a pied balloon,
throwing out ballast to rise!

At night, low altitude,
I cherish the sight, your fires,
you hovered in the round,
my vantage point just above
tops of pines that surround.

Your laughter draws me,
I lower the flame,
I settle down,
pilot to a spot
right about where you sit.

Tags: Arts, Aviation, Balloon, Balloon Sculpting, Crafts, Operators, Recreation, Samothrace

Comment

and there was Marvin, collar turned up to the rain,
Detroit falsetto, soars and says, “I see you world,”
sandpapers your soul to a smooth edge,
the syncopate rat-a-tat of conga accentuates
the question brother, of what’s really happening,

drop the needle on Abraxas,
outwait the whir-up hiss,
the outer groove of the vinyl,
enter the ancient, the Mayan,
dulcet rubato, a samba for only you,
a reason to wield your magic sticks.

she used to live in a room full of mirrors,
when 6 was 9, restrung, upside-down,
a weary broom, sweeping debris off the ridge-line
at Pali Gap, where we’d drop downs off the edge of our hands.

at the bungalow, L.A. women on the freeway
scream at the tops of their lungs,
if anyone knows from whence the salt air.

big yellow taxis were way too expensive for us,
we walked, Williamsburg to Delancey,
searching for remnants of paradise paved over.

Tags: Abraxas, Detroit, Nu‘uanu Pali, Pali Gap, Williamsburg

Comment

Hologram From The Edge

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment

Ashy indigo, backlit evening sky,
echoes the call across the universe,
orators prowl the low-end of the dome,
beneath the ear of any listener.

How’s your modulate, do you tune in so finely?
A tough station to catch at any time,
it’s undoubtedly easier at night,
signals bounced higher off star factory.

But we just don’t know for sure who’s watching.
Leaps from the edge, the event horizon,
end up in free fall to infinity,
to mornings in your bedroom, years ago.

Trap door bottoms out directly to you,
naked, your room’s light, bundling potpourri,
lavender, mint, melissa, and ginger,
aseptic, astringent, beaming holy.

I pull you back down, you’re preoccupied
carefully tucking the fine cotton gauze,
spilling tinctures, aromas on the bed,
so many sparkly beads at the party.

The pain of loving you overwhelms me.
I want to do nothing but pulse and stretch.
I know it’s short-lived, I’ll have to ascend,
back up the funnel, to free-fall, to Time.

For now I contemplate the reverie,
the joy of being anywhere at all,
let alone being anywhere with you,
this time, here, because, us two, doing our thing.

We are long-lived, we transcend the other,
leapfrogging our way to a lonely place
deep in cold space, out beyond the limit,
jettisoned, in eternal smooth motions.

Buoyed, embryonic, placenta fragments
like jigsaw pieces made-to assemble,
into odd shapes, misgivings, melodies
we sing only to ourselves late at might.

Charcoal violets, opalescence, twilight,
pearls throb tremors of rainbow in moonlight,
a kiss rips a hole in cracks of lightning,
leaves burnt sugars behind where we once stood.

Tags: Aviation, Chicago, Dropzones, Event horizon, Free fall, Oceania, Recreation, Skydiving

Comment

The Voice

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment

ahem.

searching for a voice,
but why?

mercurial – don’t ya think
is better?

Static me,
a hum. Blah.

A bum; la-la.
Shoo-bop’s the way.

What I say today
nears expiry,
the moment it exits my mouth.

Tags: Animation, Arts, Voice, Voice Actors

Comment

This is your going to sleep call

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment

June 9, 2013

Odd, that I know
more telephone numbers
from years ago, than I do from now.

Could rattle yours off in rhythm,
do-wop, blue-eyed: soulful.

Your voice was analog then, coming through
the earpiece diaphragm, a black heavy handset,
you landline babe – you! – not digital.

It resonates still against my cheek
yet struck duller tones then
against my pillow.

Sometimes you’d drift,
perchance to dream,
we, still talking,
while morning trucks started
slowly making their way,
hello to the new day.

Okay, let me let you go.
Go get some sleep.
Sleep will do us both some good.
Good night.
‘night.

Tags: long distance, Love, pillow talk, Sedative, Sleep disorder

Comment

Decorating Tip #1

Aside

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment

I wonder if people
from across the way
can see me standing
here while I pee.

Perhaps these curtains
are just too sheer?

Comment

Satyr Day Night

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment

The cold smooth mettle on my palms feels good.
Who’d settle for less? Resilience, brilliant.
Brittle determination, once again.
If at first you’re not succinct, keep trying.
How hard can it be to love a goddess?
Through this powdery mist of calcite dust,
smiling skulls, sentries o’er the center aisle,
chatter and yap about what would’ve been,
lost in the din of her banshee wailing,
as she fritters and frets at the altar.

I still have half my lives, should I worry?
She mallets a xylophone with femurs,
marimba riffs echo in the belfry,
a little daft, cold drafts still, music drifts,
spirals about her, world-beaten dervish,
hungry, weary, oh . . . Oh! Is that the spot?
Spirits resort to ancient tongues, archetypes
press themselves against her stained glass, her apse,
serpentine, mitochondria two-step,
bandannas, denims, and ten-gallon hats.

She bucks the bull without spilling a drop,
her grand cru, a select, distinguished press
comes after the crush of the late harvest,
sweet pulp taken from just below the skins,
careful to remove it from the gross lees
early to avoid the nose of sulfur
that sometimes comes from delaying the heart
too long; let gravity do its magic.
Get the white smokes going to purify
bodies, their bare ass atop cold marble.

I will shake you till your demons break loose,
blow into your lungs, straight through your nostrils,
in sweeping expanses, shift your tempo
to beat with the rhythms of the garden,
celebrate each uptick of new-found grace
in domed silence, ignoring the vanquished
who try hard to detract me from purpose,
as I slip and slide on the viscera
of your most recent spoils, your satyrs
wink and take bets if whether I’ll be next.