Village Streets Page 2
Inside the Whitney Museum
Caricatured people ride on Red Grooms’ subway car.
Soft-sculpture people are sitting or standing
propped for a simulated subway ride.
Three got off at Fourteenth Street—
The others on the #6 train ride on uptown.
Strangers all of them,
Yet
They seem familiar somehow.
We’re sure we’ve seen them all before.
On second look,
They kind of look a lot like us,
A lot like us—
A Coin
His shabby suit was worn shiny; dirty and tattered, it looked especially bad in the glint of the sun. His poverty was showing. His palsied hand was filthy. With his palm outstretched, in a very low voice he called, “A coin, a coin.”
In a loud, brusque voice a comfortably dressed elderly woman said, “Bum!” Scowling a well practiced scowl she hurried past him. She was the embodiment of judge—jury—and quick indictment.
He just stood there when she had gone; he was a living, breathing person much as she was; he too cast a shadow in the sun—proving his existence.
He never called her a name but she called him one.
Slowly he moved off, dragging his soul with him as he trudged on up First Avenue, trying to pick up a coin along the way.
Good Looking Guy (All Of 17 Years Old)
Look at him—
Just look at him, sitting there in his Hathaway shirt—
He’s well aware of his great ancestral genes,
Flaunting his store bought threads,
And
His great good looks—
Boy, doesn’t he think he looks great!
And boy doesn’t he!
Teenager in Ya Ya’s give the teenage girls a treat.
Jukebox
Silver and purple box etched in chrome
Making a Second Avenue pub its home
Eating silver coins
But abstaining from all the liquid delights
Crying out sad songs
Covering the noise of fights
Singing through the nights
Liberace, Humperdink and Bach
Wailing country westerns, disco and rock
Entertaining in a haven of escape
Standing there against the wall—
Indifferent witness to it all.
Girl On Saint Mark’s Place
See her
See how slowly she walks,
So slow
So tired,
Not yet twenty—so old!
A child, girl child, old woman—
Drying fast, flower in an autumn garden,
Withering, drying into dying,
Here on the street before our eyes.
She was so fragile, so beautiful, so fair—
Now see her there—
Aged by frenzied, rushing, crushing
Life sucking mad hours.
She is dying, right here
For all the world to see
Right here on St. Marks place.
Whore
Whore lady, there is no challenge in your eyes.
You are wearing harlequin clothes.
Where have you left your youth?
You are a living haunt—
Have you ever known love?
Is there someone for whom you really care?
You are always in pursuit of
What you do not want—
Get out!
Take a bus ride!
Get out of this town
Before you’re out of time—
Go straight ahead—
Take no backward glance!
Wash your face!
Comb your hair!
Take your soul and go somewhere—
The Traveler
I’ve never thought of myself as a traveler, but I guess you might call me that. I’ve been to Europe a few times, lived there awhile, graduated from a university in Paris.
Went to the Orient too at the request of the United States Army, came home and toured most of the states, part of a four year research and study group for one of the Five Hundred Corps. But it wasn’t till after all these trips that I really traveled—although I’ve never moved much below the Brooklyn Bridge on the Manhattan side or above Fourteenth Street east or west here in New York City.
I have traveled far, far from family, friends and stability. I travel light, don’t even carry a totebag—I’d only lose it, or worse, have to fight for it!
I fly on the wings of Thunderbird or take Night Trains going nowhere over and over again. I travel fast on a liquid express—
Just bummed another quarter that gives me my fare for one more trip on Night Train. Guess I will just stay on till the end of the line for a few more years—or till tomorrow—or maybe just till the bottom of the bottle. Got my fare, got my ticket, got the bottle—who knows, this might be my last trip.
The Games Go On—
Red light green light,
Red Rover, Red Rover, let Jenny come over—
Hide and seek, Angie’s it!
Hop scotch, Betty’s got three boxes already.
Hangman, ghost—anyone can play—
Pepper salt mustard cider,
how many people live in China?
Jump rope—double dutch.
Turn around, turn around, blind’s man bluff.
Here we go round the mulberry bush,
Johnny on a pony—one—two—three.
Farmer in the dell, the cheese stands alone—
Three blind mice,
The farmer’s wife de-tailated those little devils—
Coffee pot, coffee pot, what am I thinking of?
I am thinking of all those games we played
when we were kids—
The players have scattered and yet—
The children all grown up
Play games still.
The Last Out
She closed the door behind her
And went out into the new day,
Out of his life forever—
He closed the door behind him
And went out into the night,
Out of her life forever.
Mid daytime and nighttime
They each returned, then together
They closed the door behind them.
They went out out of each
Others’ lives forever.
He walked west, she took a cab.
Sorely In Need Of A Lie
When I saw you last night, like a fool I said,
"Of course nothing has changed."
The only thing that has changed is everything!
Yes I know how I so fiercely don’t love you anymore.
Yes I know how you have come to loathe me.
We don’t remember birthdays—
There are no anniversaries—
But oh, oh it’s such a beautiful night!
Tell me lies—tell me lies.
Hm! I Wonder About You Silly Clown
You there, silly clown in your harlequin suit—
What are you laughing at?
You have the world on a string
You silly old thing,
Dancing around in a sawdust ring.
Actor, mime, mummer,
What are you really thinking?
Are you laughing with us, or at us?
You obnoxious cuss
Riding through towns in a carnival bus.
Are you just passing through,
To leave us a laugh?
Are you hiding a tear on your funny clown face?
Are you really no different than us?
Do you hurt sometimes?
Are there days when you’re very, very happy?
Are there days when you feel so blue you could die?
But,
Clowns aren’t supposed to cry
So you don’t—
I often wonder about you, dear silly clown.
A one legged spider in collage clay
A skinny elephant of papier-mâché
A purple sun in a blood red sky
A fat lumpy frog with one great green eye
A square shaped robin with a scotch plaid vest
Ah, three painted stones in a wet paper nest
A rice paper mobile taped to the window shade
A pink tissue rose that will never fade
A stocking stuffed hippo in a popstick zoo
Pipe cleaner people all askew
Just standing at angles with nothing to do.
Snow In The 9th Precinct N.Y.C.
Soft white gauge, thin layered badge
Covering gently the bruised hurt earth
Covering old scars
Hiding new wounds.
Ungainly, crooked tree becomes quiet loneliness.
Snow soundlessly covering, covering—
The ghetto becomes Paris.
What If I Went To Ireland
A road somewhere is calling
To the wanderer in me
Take me to the high roads
Lead me to the sea
Let me cross the ocean
My roots are blooming there
Perhaps I’ll find another face
That I’d know anywhere
In Castledown Square
The old women, black skirted, woolen sweatered
Cozy round like storybook witches—
Like cawing blackbirds with nodding heads
They meet on the street, across fences or on doorsteps
To exchange daily news bits of their little village.
If news should be scarce
They re-edit old bulletins.
Their grapevine spares no one—
Father Jim, Himself the mayor, the old and the young,
and of course “That Callahan Girl.”
Their own families must lead dull, exemplary lives
for their names are never spoken of.
After a time their tongues are exhausted—
The old women in their somber black skirts
and heavy black sweaters
And their now quiet tongues amble on toward
their homes satisfied with their latest news analyses.
To Wake The Dead
No rumble of thunder
No knock on the door
Will waken Bill Skag from his sleep.
He died in the night—
Gar what a sight!
He was took with a shaking jag.
Word was around in village and town
That Bill was onto the drink again.
Well now, maybe he was,
And maybe he wasn’t—
But right now a wee drop would do me no harm.
(Bill would drink to that
If only he could.)
I believe I’ll just have a wee nip to keep me self calm
Till Father Jim reads the 23rd Psalm—
The Old County Champ
He sleeps upon a narrow bed
Far out in the countryside,
The sun and the moon above his head.
There was no funeral,
No one cried.
The old gravedigger doffed his cap,
Mumbled a prayer with liquored breath,
Then he covered the old champ
With a blanket of earth.
He left him to sleep in eternal rest,
His bones to dirt, his last fight to death.
Dreammender
Day in, day out, people bring their broken dreams
To the dreammender’s shop.
The smithy works quietly
Putting in long hours,
Seldom sleeping—
Keeps right on working
At
Mending, repairing, making whole again
People’s broken dreams.
The sign over his shop reads
“Dreams mended
Nightmares discarded
But
I don’t touch daydreams.”
Evening Comes To The Backyard At 1802 Redwood Lane
The last bird has finished chattering.
All the goodnights have been said.
Little fists of feathers
Fill the dormitories in the trees.
The sun goes down,
The moon comes on—a night light—
Casting shadows.
Grass is heavy with dew.
The only sound—
The porch swing moving softly,
Caught in a vagrant night breeze.
Pussywillows Make Me Feel So Sad
Pussywillows make me feel so sad.
All fat and furry
Full term kittens
Stillborn—
They stay forever
On their mother branch
Never to roam or to play
Or do the things that kittens do,
Never to really come alive.
Stillborn
Little
Puff
Of
Gray
Fluff
You make me feel so sad.
First Frost
The first frost had come in the night and
Not disappearing before noon,
Cleverly disguised itself as white
Chrysanthemums—
Autumn
The leaves bid each other adieux
Their close affinity through the summer is over
Soon they will belong to no season
October rains will leave the trees
Naked, barren, brown
A
Forest
Of
Crucifixes—
Come Fill The Cup
Spring rain had come in the night . . .
Gently,
Filling every cup of tulip up—
The Thief
Pride of ancient Japan,
Pure silk tapestry,
Embroidered with threads of gold
By an artist’s hand—
Gift for the emperor,
Stolen by one tiny moth.
No Pets Allowed (Sign On Front Window Of Abandoned Tenement)
No pets allowed?
No pets at all?
But there are pets you know—
There are mice in the wall,
Roaches run in the hall.
Spiders make webs to catch green bottle flies,
Dust kittens float everywhere.
There are pigeons on the window sill.
Squirrels run in and out through broken windowpanes.
Mosquitoes at night
Take bloody bites,
And
There are other creeping, crawling things
Entomologists have yet to identify—
No pets allowed?
No pets indeed!
My, my, my—
Forecast
The bushes down near the barn are covered with blackbirds—
So many of them, they swarm like bees.
Their black feathers ruffle and shimmer—
They chatter, chirp and caw.
En masse they mimic perpetual motion.
High anxiety!
Suddenly a hush, stillness, a quiet waiting—
Waiting for a cue?
Moma looks at them, then looks skyward.
Moma says, “A storm is coming.”
A sudden noisy ruffling of feathers and flapping wings—
They lift off—
Swept swiftly up into the sky.
They become a crooked shadow against the sun,
A great black fan—
Poof! they are gone.
Moma is right, thunder rumbles in the distance.
What Do Little Boys Keep In Old Cigar Boxes?
Why treasures of course!
Aggies, glassies, and cat eyes
Cola caps filled with wax for corner-to-corner, skelly
Priceless
cards of Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle, Hodges
and Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio.
Yes lots and lots of magical things—
A two-ply weight of good kite string
Assorted fishing weights and flies
Two broken pen knives with Empire State and
Niagara Falls painted right on them
Some bubble gum hard enough to break a tooth
A rubberband that will never expand
A medal all dull with a ribbon decrepit
Won years ago at the Fourth of July Community Fest
Two ticket stubs to a Yankee game
A rusty jew’s harp and a cracked kazoo
Yes sirree—
Little boys keep all their “good stuff”
In old cigar boxes—
I thought you knew . . .
Noise And Violence
Surf pounds the shore—
Lightning crackles—
Thunder crashes—
Winds roar!
There is violence in tornados!
And
Out in the kitchen,
Grandma beats the eggs—and—whips the mashed potatoes!
Violence is everywhere—
Do you suppose, perhaps
The earth did start with a big bang?
The Great Debate
The Id and the Ego
Discussed one day
Their relative worth.
Ego said
I am a very fine thing
I stand for reason, for sanity
I make man aware of himself
I make him healthfully conceited
I am that part of his psyche that
Gives him his rationality—
Yes indeed, I am a very fine thing.
Then Id
Spoke up
I am more important
I am a much finer thing
I am that part of the psyche which is
The very source of all energy—
Indeed I am a very fine thing.
Remember that, and remember too—
I will always be an Id bit better
Than you.
On Tides Of Passion, Or: The Lovers
She waits patiently, knowing her lover will always return to her. Theirs is not a hidden clandestine tryst—together they fling their love openly under blue skies, silver moons, in green velvet caverns or on coastal rocks.