poet, interviewer, musician, traveler
secret
to hide my true identity
I travel from restaurant to club
with a series of beautiful women
of wildly varying heights
there was a time — not long ago —
when even this would have seemed impossible
even now I’m surprised by our reflection
in the windows along the street
sometimes, in a Christopher Street bar,
over an improbable cup of tea
you find exactly what you need
or who
I could spend hours watching you laugh
waiting for the bus while the pigeons
look for scraps on the blacktop
also in line for this bus is a woman
with red feathers braided into her black hair
— I swear it’s true —
and another young woman next to me
has spent the better part of an hour
carefully inspecting every inch of her right leg
these New York summers make everyone a little loopy
back home we’d be dancing to reels
played by old men with a little bit of red
left in their beards
but in this city we each carry our own melody
hoping that someone else knows the tune
I wrote this tonight while listening to Amy Cervini at The 55 Bar in NYC. I wrote a poem the last time I saw Amy Cervini, too. This one is a combination of autobiography (although less so than in many of my poems) and things seen and overheard.
carbon copy
thunder rolls through the West Village
the bar patrons pull their glasses closer
basement captives of the summer rain
I learned recently that all I need to do
is find a carbon copy of you
somewhere on the streets of New York
the only time anyone calls is when I’m here
bartender hands me the phone
greasy with city dust and sweat
I put it to my ear but nothing’s there
not the ocean
or the harsh sound of your laughter
if Johnny were here he’d know what to do
black is the new black
he’s always in style
but it’s just me
this whistling guitar player
the rain on the street outside
soy sauce
I would wait for you even if I had soy sauce
even with the perfectly crafted maki rolls
sitting right there in front of me, seductively
I would wait while you finished telling me
about that time with him, when you knew
the light in the tunnel was a train
I would wait until you said what needed saying
until you’d convinced yourself it was over
that some bridges can be crossed in only one direction
then I would fill your cup with hot green tea
pour the soy sauce into your little clay dish
leave just the right amount of silence to let you know
barefoot on the N train
barefoot man polishing a smartphone
talks incessantly on the N train
until the woman across the car
screams “shut up! stop talking!”
everyone who had been pretending to sleep
is looking now, eyes drawn toward the end of the car
where the argument erupts into life
like summer thunder and is gone as quickly
the storm contained in this hot box beneath Brooklyn
A poem inspired by the Talk To Me exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The exhibit is now in members-only preview and opens to the public on 7/24.
/ / /
talk 2 me in 1s & 0s
peer @ me w/ your LED eyes
tell me you love me w/ a stream of ticker tape
reach out & touch me
sunshine iced tea bagel
“I Saw Her Standing There”
Green Fig in July
Exhale
he’s wearing a white Oxford
when his jacket arms pull up
I can see his shirt cuffs are dirty
now I look closer — frayed ends of his pants
shoes with worn soles and scuffed sides
a small cigarette burn on one lapel
hand under his handle-less briefcase
is he going home after yet another interview?
does he have a wife somewhere in Brooklyn
who thinks he’s at work?
or was she washed away, too, in the flash flood
of changing fortunes?
I wait because I know it’s coming
and it does:
the long exhale
the one he can’t control
the air forced out of his body
as if his own lungs are trying to
mercifully asphyxiate him
for a second I wonder whether he’ll breathe in again
he does
the train passes Chambers Street
I went tonight to hear Petr Cancura‘s Lonesome Quartet with Petr on banjo and saxophone, Kirk Knuffke on cornet, Garth Stevenson on bass and Tyshawn Sorey on drums. I was very impressed by the music. Petr told a story about a trip he made that inspired this poem. I took a few bit of his story, changed the details and imagined the rest.
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| From Petr Cancura's Lonesome Quartet at Cornelia Street Cafe (7/7/11) |
soil
there’s a farm outside Memphis where a hog is roasting / and the old brass-band leader’s kinfolk will welcome you to the party / even if your accent don’t quite fit
this is soil country / rooted / each one can trace from the branch all the way into the earth / you can’t play brass band music if your feet don’t touch the ground
in the old farmhouse is an even older hutch / in a cabinet in the hutch is an ancient Bible / full of blood and memory / the names are a hymn / a holy call into hallowed ground
out by the roasting pit / they’ve cleared a space for dancing / little girls standing on their fathers’ feet / young boys shoved into the arms of cousins / “come now, child, dance with her – it won’t kill you”
the old brass-band leader is right where he’s been all these years / waving his mail-order baton / cajoling music from a bunch of coots as old / as the dirt they’re standing on
later / when the kids are asleep and the band is done / the oldest of the men takes out a banjo / plucks the stars alight
there’s a farm outside Memphis / where all are welcome / this is soil country / rooted
Leave a CommentI saw Stephan Crump‘s Rosetta Trio at Barbes in Brooklyn last month. This poem was inspired by a few phrases Stephan used while introducing the tunes. That’s his bass in the photo below.
how the west was lost
meanwhile back in the bar…
two guitar players tell road stories
sweat gliding down their faces
hands plucking phantom strings
their whiskey long drunk
their beer glasses dry
eyes unfocused by drink and memory
as the bar slowly empties
finally it’s just the bartender
wiping down the wood
half listening to the tales
he’s heard so many times
a sawdust cowboy
disappears over a distant hill
the rumble of hoofbeats
rolling through this August valley
This poem is dedicated to the trumpeter Eli Asher. In addition to being an inspiring musician, he came up with the phrase “Gumbo Sutra,” which inspired the rest of the poem. I started this weeks ago and finally finished it tonight. Thanks, Eli.
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| From Buddha In The Modern World (Ongoing Photo Essay) |
The Buddha of New Orleans
(for Eli Asher)
The Buddha of New Orleans
plays trumpet on the weekends
with three guys from the Legion hall
and two oyster house waiters
who moonlight as dancers.
Clap hands, here comes Gautama!
He’s lost weight and looks more like
the Tibetan image than the Chinese version.
He swings like a gate, too.
(gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate)
He plays with time, shifting the beat.
No two members of the band
are ever in exactly the same place.
The dancers ignore them, whirling
around the stage in time to the low buzz
from the PA system.
After the gig, the band goes back to his house.
He cooks for them,
recites the Gumbo Sutra.
This has been going on for years
and they still never understand a word he says.
But something about
the way he says it
— so calm, so caring —
makes them smile over their bowls
of rice and beans.
I went to Jazz Standard tonight to see Ben Allison’s band with Michael Blake, Steve Cardenas, Jason Lindner and Rudy Royston. I wrote this poem during the show, inspired by things in the club, phrases I heard, song titles and my owned fevered imagination. The first quotation in the poem was said from the stage by Michael Blake.
new york basement blues
1.
grab your jazz hat
meet me in the bent-note basement
Jackie’s back of the bar
sloshing the occasional beer
on the tongue-colored tile
the Dutch couple near the stage
look trapped, unsure
told, perhaps, that this would be
something else
(close your eyes, dear,
and think of Holland)
2.
there was a monk on San Juan Hill
who could tell your fortune
in two bars of three
he could stop on a dime:
and give you nonsense and change
“you and me baby†he’d say
“let’s start our own country
and nobody will comeâ€
(he had a sign in his window / it said:
MY BOSS IS KAREN CARPENTER)
3.
later, as the sleepy-eyed theater boys
slowly regain their senses
a sidewalk prophet in plaid and denim
hands us a poem by William Blake
on which he’s drawn a caricature
of Barrack Obama
hugging Margaret Thatcher
“April is the cruelest month†he says
“except for February, which I’ve never likedâ€
This poem was inspired by seeing vocalist Fay Victor and bassist Dominic Lash perform together tonight at the Evolving Music Series. Here’s an album of photos from the event, which also included Theo Bleckmann & Jay Clayton, Charles Gayle’s Forgiveness and more.
fireflies
my mouth is full of fireflies
a spring night jack-o-lantern
with glowing cheeks
my honeyed ears hum
with the soft songs of bees
and their dancing maps
there are dogs and bears and tragic lovers
haunting the April sky
a night woodsman thunks his axe into a stump
I hear a grumbling ostinato in the trees
the song of an unseen singer
calling me homeward toward my little room
filled floor to ceiling with jars of fireflies
damp with saliva
I wrote this tonight at Bar Next Door while listening to James Shipp, Mike LaValle, Rogerio Boccato and Jo Lawry.
song without words
there is a way you sing
this song without words
that reminds me of
water touching sand
the bell falls to the ground
like a baby’s eyes opening
your fingers tap the chorro
I taste warm maté
what if we never get past
this slowly revolving door?
never get to the sunshine lands
where children play big drums
and dance without fear?
a fundamental understanding of the nature of the universe
you went to hug me
I shook your hand
like a key that wouldn’t turn
there’s a fake sky painted
on the ceiling of this restaurant
much bluer than the real one
held at bay by thick windows
and sitar music
everyone in here is eating alone
as if that’s okay
one of the waitresses is singing
beside the door is a box
filled with slips of paper
imparting bits of wisdom
as if life can be changed
by words on a piece of paper
(which, of course, it can)
on the piano in your living room
you played me a song that your father loved
I sat on the floor and listened