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Jun 2020 · 84
Fireflies
Steven Jun 2020
Bring the mild winter,
the early summer
for the sultry bugs.
For who doesn’t find warmth,
a childhood
in their flicker lux.
Steven Jun 2020
In the vernacular. Early 1980s.  New York City.


Some parts -
well, some parts
were third world countries really
not like the glitz in the advertising charts.
Unpolished banquets
of flea markets on blankets
selling broken light bulbs,
a bumper,
watched over with a bagged liquor gulp
and a mutt by the side
that when lucky was fed a slice from the corner.
Chain link fencing behind the stench
dented, climbed,
hubcaps displayed on ‘em.
The broadleaf weeds,
the miserable trees
their only nature’s gem.

Yeah,
some parts -
some parts
were cruel and shifty.
Far from the jewel presented
on a postcard and a 15 cent stamp -
wonderfully ******.
The city back then gathered up
washed-up teens or young adults
on the Lower East Side
not even knowing why they were there.
Misfits really
not fitting into a family or town -
no money.
Perhaps once church-going girls
who knew more than the native what a pine tree was
and plus, this is the place where stars are born -
now working,
squeezing,
cocking,
paid to do what they were disgraced to do:
parloring to get the moan,
******* to produce the white honey.
And this was before the crack
and vials crunched on the steps of the subway.

Men would squeegee for cents and cigarettes -
Marlboro or Kent.
A mix of Lincolns, Jeffersons
throw in an Eisenhower, a Washington.
A decade before Broken Windows
and a lord mayors attempt
to take back control of parts lost
to appease the nobility.

Yeah,
there were sections -
sections that you brought a gun to deliver milk.
“Protection.”
And people carried things:
broomsticks cut down,
crowbars in a city in neighborhoods with the motto:
“Do what you gotta do.”
“Wrong place.  Wrong time.”
Where grandmothers would be mugged on the subway
in a city on the verge of Chapter 11,
a city of pushbacks and organized crime
where everyone seemed fit,
gang patches
before Angels wore red berets
and offered a hint of safety
in light or dark
and guarded a canvas
of moving steel plastered with graffiti and grime
and the cement crime sublime.
Where one could still dream in a city of bleakness
before,
good or bad,
it all went theme park.
Jun 2020 · 79
Graffiti On The Old Guard
Steven Jun 2020
Reflection on the spray painting of the Robert E. Lee monument during the protests that followed the death of George Floyd. Late spring, 2020. Monument Avenue, Richmond, Virginia.


Leave it some say
in its now public grave
or genesis perhaps
decorated in the art of the day.
Graffiti on the old guard.
Reinvented
in cursive, in shorthand.
Scrawl scarred
in black, in red,
white on brass
told through the quill of a paint can
like some postmodern
montage of
script on monument
juxtaposing what truth was then
to what truth is now.
There is no black or white,
just shades of gray.
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