Sad Girl on an Uptown Train

Sad Girl on an Uptown Train

It was just

another subway

Monday morning

as the city and I

shook off

the weekend.

The rustle

of newspaper

hide and seek

was muted

by my headphones

and the steady click

of staccato thumbs.

She wedged in

from the 28^th Street

platform, wrapped

in wool and leather,

her hair tousled

by an unfair wind.

The sorrow she wore

did not go well

with her Louis Vuitton

so I painted a smile

on her face with my eyes,

and loved her all the way

to 77^th Street.

SMG

Manhattan Morning Dream Sequence

NEW YORK - Time Lapse - Tilt Shift - Scales by Fernando Livschitz from Black Sheep Films on Vimeo.

 

Manhattan Morning Dream Sequence

Silence and stillness don’t actually live on the island of Manhattan. There are flashes though, before sunrise, when they are sensed in the city like the quiescence that precedes a quake. In those cool moments, towers made of Portland, fly ash, slag and aggregate groan and weep in the dark spaces above the carbon arc and incandescent illumination of the streets. The pavement labyrinth, scared by decades of Checker Cab and Crown Victoria abuse, has time to heal and sometimes in those early hours, you might even catch yourself dreaming.

In the tick of a clock the stillness of the dawn is shaken by tin horns and steel cattle as they herd through the tunnels. The Midtown, Battery, Holland and Lincoln belch rubber and chrome, and foul the air of daybreak. The city’s veins course, and crisscross with Pullman cars packed like trains bound for Birkenau.  The blood pressure of the borough rises in sync with the sun’s ascent in the eastern sky. Hundred year old bridges sag under the weight of Detroit and Tokyo wheels and the dreams begin to dissolve with the dawn mist.

Subway steps erupt with molten commuters that bubble up and out across the city. The irresistible flow washes over the cars and buses locked in their cross-town crawl. Soft associations form and disband at every intersection then resume their persistent crush. A symphony of whistles, horns and profanity rattles the air and reverberates off the walls of canyons. The din grows, and the motion accelerates until they overwhelm the asphalt maze and I know that I am home and the dreams are but a memory.

SMG

Hollow Monday

Hollow Monday

Faces lined with 27 years

on the LIRR, leaning together,

hang like meat and litter
the seats of the Number 4

express train. They speak

of lives left along the tracks

that run through places

like Hauppauge, Hempstead,

Freehold and Elizabeth.

Each mile, a stretch of life

extracted as payment

for a house in the suburbs,
and weekends spent down the shore.
There are no eyes here

and smiles are rarely seen.

Those who have crossed…

remember us. In the shadow

between exuberance

and exhaustion there is

perpetual motion,

like a pendulum back and forth,

back and forth, back again.

It replaces passion or purpose

with perseverance:  an inmate

awaiting parole-- a vulture circling.

Life is very long—but death

lasts forever. The gods demand

their tribute and we have taxes to pay.

SMG

Eastern Terminus

Eastern Terminus

The eastern terminus of the Lincoln
Highway is Times Square, New York,
New York; the confluence of Broadway,
Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Three
thousand three hundred and eighty nine
miles from San Francisco to the Cross-
roads of the World, cut through the
Rockies, across the broken heartland
and over the big shoulders. There is no
poetry here only clichéd mannequins, neon
buskers and Moriarty’s ghost. Pale travelers,
blown in from Bountiful to Bedford, stand
on line at Bubba Gump and an old stripper
cries in the shadow of some forty odd stories.
Jesus used to ride the crystal ball but now we
seek our salvation in the ticker’s rise and fall;
God is dead after all. This is jazz, blues and
rock n roll, marquee lights and urine stained
sidewalks, the end of a long road, destiny
manifest and an innocent kiss at midnight.

9 to 5 Icarus

9 to 5 Icarus

These days King Minos
wears a suit and tie
and drives a new Bentley,
but he still has to deal
with the same bull,
rotten kids, bad wife;
fucking cow!

This is Manhattan,
not Knossos, so
there’s no labyrinth here,
just subways tunnels
and skyscrapers,
but it can still be hard
to find a way out.

The wings of our fathers
come with warning labels
and we still ignore them
when we get high.
It’s fortunate that this prison
only holds me from 9 to 5
and New Jersey
is a relatively short flight.

SMG

Leaving New York

Leaving New York

Walking home, 8:20 PM,

Friday evening of another long week;

in New York we measure misery

in Fahrenheit and empty bottles.

One hundred eighty two weekends lost,

and six more to go before I wash off

this subway grime forever.

Wednesday’s snow has gone grey

and the sidewalks are a slush

puddle slalom and controlled slide.

Fresh bottle in hand, I watched

a small boy with his father in tow.

He ninja kicked his way down the sidewalk,

superhero joy on his face, oblivious

to the city and all of its hard edges.

I wonder if I’m really ready to leave.

5:30 AM, Insomnia fueled,

coffee nicotine run in snow flurries

and a razorblade wind.

Hopeful young women,

Saturday nights make-up smeared

by Sunday morning, stumble out of walk-ups

toward the subway steps.

The city spits them out,

back to Jersey and Long Island,

like gum chewed past the point of flavor.

New York is a ponzi scheme of promise,

reliant on wide eyes and fresh blood.

In the shelter of a doorway I lit my first

and watched the sun gradually burn

its way across Twenty Third Street.
I wonder if I’m really ready

for a lifetime of sunsets.

SMG

Union Square

Union Square

A bum recites absurdist poetry
to passersby and collects change
in a fake Burberry cap while I
slowly sip my Sunday morning
and shop for open air jalapeños,
mushrooms and cilantro.

Paint bucket drummers provide
a steady backbeat as the weekend
consumers come out to worship
and the church crowd is released
from weekly servitude.

Across the square, a painter discusses
politics with a jewelry maker
and a guy in a Gumby t-shirt.

As the sun plays peak-a-boo
with the masts of Mannahatta,
I wonder how long the fresh cut roses
will last if I decide to splurge.

A toddler pilots a stroller down the sidewalk,
parents in tow, while four teens knee and kick
an innocent bean bag back and forth
above the ghosts of potter’s field.

The voice of the city is clear this morning
and it sings to me; a medley of ballads,
seductive love songs and, of course,
a full complement of the blues.

SMG

Love & Hate in 4/4 Time

Love & Hate in 4/4 Time

" New York is a great apartment hotel in which everyone lives and no one is at home." Glenway Wescott

I moved to the Borough of Manhattan in August of 2007. There were any number of reasons for the move; career, art, culture, family and I suppose the need for a life change. For the first few months I was here, I was frequently asked two questions:
1. Why did you leave California?
2. What do you think of New York?

The answer to question one is simple enough. For the better part of the previous 10 years I had lived in San Diego; a beautiful, temperate, coastal city that is only about an hour and a half from where I grew up. As much as I loved living there, and being close to kith and kin, I am a restless soul. I have found that even heaven can wear on you after too many years. There is something about contentment that chips away at a man’s resolve. Like that statue in the park, so noble and striking when it was erected. It should always stand magnificent and proud but in time it becomes just another thing to be shit on by migrating birds and ignored by passers by.

The second question was much harder to answer in a way that could truly convey what this place is like for me. I have spent hours trying to capture the essence of Manhattan in my poetry, but I have only managed to give very small glimpses of New York life. Most of the time I fail miserably, only able to create weak one dimensional images that have no breadth, depth or texture. The complexity, vibrancy and frustrations of this city exceed my all too inadequate vocabulary. I remember the first time I came to New York some years ago. I was in DC on a business trip and decided to take the train up for the weekend. If you have never been here do yourself a favor and come by train to Penn Station. The overwhelming of the senses as you walk out of the station and into the shadow of Madison Square Garden will stay with you for a long time. The enormity of the city is difficult to grasp until you pop up smack in the middle of it all. I think I now have an idea of what Garcia Lopez de Cardenas must have felt the first time he saw the Grand Canyon.

My impressions of New York are intimately tied to music because I walk almost everywhere I go and I’m never without my trusty iPod. A good MP3 player is the perfect defense against panhandlers, lost tourists and subway serenaders. This synergy of music and cityscape has created a living sound track to my life here. Music shapes and colors my interpretation of the city, people and places I encounter.

When I first arrived I was living in a hotel in Midtown near Central Park. It was summer and every day after work I would ride my bike through the park. For 5 weeks the only time I ever went outside was for my nightly ride. I like the energy when I ride so my cycling play list is comprised of metal, hip hop and industrial music. Because of how I came to know the place, I don’t think of Central Park as pastoral, I think of it as angry. The roads of the park to me became a place to release the day’s stress, as I aggressively cut through leisure riders, runners and skaters, pushing harder with each stroke of the pedals. Imagine the snarl of Metallica’s “Ain’t My Bitch” blasting in your head as trees and pedestrians blurred past. It is not a place of peace and beauty; it is a desperate and pathetic attempt to connect with nature and the earth. When the weather is nice, or at least warm, the park is over run with men, women, children and dogs all hiding from the prison walls that surround us every day. As a visitor several years ago I remember thinking how wonderful it was. It was December and I was on a leisure weekend. I strolled down snow covered paths holding the hand of my future wife and wanted time to stop so I could always be in that place. Today I just stay away so I can avoid the crowds and the ever present aroma of horse shit.

The soundtrack has helped shape many positive memories too. I wish I could bottle the peace I felt one Saturday morning as I walked up Broadway from the 79th street A-Train station. I was listening to the first movement of Mozart’s Symphony 40 in G minor and the world just made sense. My stride fell in sync with the music, the sun reflected off the buildings and lit the path as I walked. I saw wonder in the eyes of the children I passed and I could taste the spring blossoms in the air. The city loved me that day and I could not help but love it right back. When New York is good there is no place better on earth.

I’ve walked down 7th Avenue with Jay-Z’s sample laden rap “Heart of the City” repetitively pulsing in my head and felt every word on the back of my throat, “Where’s the Love?” indeed. I have felt Adam’s angst as I contemplated “A Long December” walking home through Madison Square Park in the dead of winter. New York can be a place rife with sadness and regret and sometimes those things hold your hand and follow you home. I have The Counting Crows back to back with Simon and Garfunkel’s “America”. When they sing “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why” I connect with the words and can see them on the faces of the city. The daily crush of millions wears on the citizenry like the abrasive winter wind. Sometimes looking for a smile in this town is as fruitless as Abraham’s search for 10 righteous men in Sodom, but I still look.

In the end, I guess the answer to that question is that New York is place that I love and hate. It is a city that makes you believe that all things are possible and then does not blink as it steps on your dreams. It is a place where dancing shadows slide between the buildings during summer sunsets, squirrels chase morsels in the parks and men and women freeze to death alone on the city streets at night. With all its contradictions, callousness, and confusion, I still miss it when I leave. It is sad, beautiful and dysfunctional but it is where I live so I embrace it as home. I know I will leave this place someday in the not too distant future, but I don’t think it will ever leave me.

SMG

Juxtaposition

Juxtaposition

Evening rush hour,
34th Street station,
downtown local track:

Faces pulled
from their Monday jars
hang on dour silhouettes
around the platform.
They kick grains of rice,
and wipe the dirt
from their hands
in unison and time.

a melody in my head
matches the beat and I
begin to quietly sing--

Two rats, one large,
one small, both hoary
and obscure in the dim,
search for food and run
the gauntlet, between
the 3rd rail, rotten ties
and the accumulated
refuse of a hundred years.

I continue to sing
softly; keenly aware
of the hole in my sock.

SMG