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We pass the
walled incline
of Barbour Park

during the day
a foreboding
patch…an open
air market for
the slave merchants
hustling crack and
**** drippin ****
that's been stepped
on so many times
its a wonder the cut
can still chide a high
out of a wrangled soul

the park’s
modest elevation
is an advantageous
lookout for
runners dealing
dimes while
petty ante
gangstas
daydream
gun blazing glories
of their next big job

not long ago
the park was
refurbed with
an industrial
strength plastic
Jungle Jim,
soon after
the park was
condemned
as a no go
zone for kids,
the litter of
hypodermic
needles and
mounds of
lead spiked
soil, deemed
a public health
risk for youth...
quickly
repurposed
as a crib
for ballers…

back in the
day, the shady
pocket park
lifted Paterson’s
citizenry off
the heated
pavements of
a bustling
thoroughfare

a respite from
the pulsing
tensions of urbanity,
a secular sanctuary,
balancing the urgent
industry of commerce
with the propriety of
residential life

compacting a
brief escape
from the clanging
metronome with
a viewing stand
offering elevation...
a heightened
perspective on
life’s parade
marching
up and down
Broadway…

this urban
oasis planted
at the center
of Silk City’s
grandiloquent
boulevard,
occupies
the most
democratic
equidistant
transit point
between opulent
Eastside mansions
of livin large tycoons
at one end….
and the
industrial district of
The Great Falls,
rising at Broadway’s
western terminus,
assiduously
manufacturing
dollars for the darlings
of fortune and
subsistence for
workers yearning to taste
the crumbs of
prosperity that may fall
from the tables of
opportunity

the park once a
pleasant face of
the landlocked
4th Ward filled
with homage to
a nation's greatest
citizens, Hamilton,
Rosa Parks,
Lafayette,
Madison, Fulton,
Montgomery and
Franklin has
denounced the
virtuous pursuit of
their aspirational
yearnings

now playas
feast on
the mead
of sustenance
harvested from
emaciated streets

commerce has taken
up full residency...
the wards cottage industry
cannibalizing
homes, hoods and
homeboys

as the
4th Ward
grows ugly,
the healthy
matrix of
bustling
street life
breaks down
the peeps
weakened
lay prostate
offer veins
to blood *******
predators
roaming
distressed
going south
neighborhoods

wise guy
knuckleheads,
get busy
gaming
the system
short changing
themselves and
hustling game
to get by
in the sweet bye
and buy of life

at night
a back lit
Barbour Park
floods with the
yellow haze of
blinking Fair St.
lamp posts
and the pulsing
halations
crowning the
Baptist's
of St. Luke's

sentient figures
shift between
park benches
flitting among the
black torsos
of skeletal trees
blending into
the faded
complexion
of abandoned
swing sets

I swear I see
Hurricane Carter
shadow boxing
dancing
around a gangling
Elm, jabbing
away, lifting
a sweet uppercut
working combos
of left hooks
and right crosses
hoping to drop an
intractable
presence
banging away
at a body politic
forming the walls
of taunting
inequities

Hurricane stays
busy delivering
body blows
to burst
through the
prison bars
surrounding
Barbour Park

Music selection:
Bob Dylan, Hurricane

Paterson
01/30/13
jbm

A fragment from extended poem Silk City PIT.  
Published today to honor the death of Rubin Hurricane Carter.
May he find the freedom in eternal rest that eluded him during his lifetime.
A fragment from extended poem Silk City PIT.  (Part 4: Funky Broadway)
Published today to honor the death of Rubin Hurricane Carter.
May he find the freedom in eternal rest that eluded him during his lifetime.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
and sometimes in russia you can be found going to the opera, and drinking квас (rootbeer is the only known equivalent)... and you joke and say how it looks: k'bac (make the word batch acute... ć? actually... flatline the end of how k'bac would look like __). evidently, in a land where в = v and с = s... is not the same land where they do that k.c.s. trick of interpolation / interweaving... sure inter based on particularly worded example... otherwise intra basis for keeping a symbol that morphs; slippery *******, those phonetic eels.

i call it the samurai haircut...
because... it ****** well looks like...
the way dave rubin's hairline
becomes enclosed in the headphones?
    that'**** is ******* samurai...
mind you i'm drunk and looking
at the screen at a distance that would
suggest it to be so...
             *******'s donning a
                                          chonmage!
i'm all for carousels and ferris wheels...
i like the: whoop-d-doo-da'h
special effects, but this **** is twisted,
now i'm the one laughing...
                what the hell is up with that?
and when i listen to *tool's

cover of peaches you lied...
    one image... charon swinging left to right
(or right to left)... swinging a scythe,
very labourously (laboriously -
thing with post-german languages is that
they use too many vowels... ******* can't
get enough of them... spelling this *******
out is like them trying to learn to state
a sz sound... it's just a sh...
son darling, really? hush, or listen to some
deep purple or kula shaker... mm'kay?)        
                                             d      f
% 2 !          7    &         (looking for a dot,
given the faux pas aesthetic of ? followed by it...
of wait... for it is normal given ?!
                     oh look here! there's the little *******!
         .
               now that became completely pointless.
try covering blind melon's swong no rain...
   you'll probably find it easier taking
to a palette for roquefort cheese,
            or actually allowing milk to "go off"
until it becomes skisłe
also called bopping along / dancing in your chair...
wait a minute: i was only thinking about the spelling
the karousel... thinking about the ferris-wheel...
  and c... middle name's conrad...
never had "gone off" milk with warm potatoes?
so i'm guessing you never had yoghurt?
i do acknowledge that the consistency is parallel,
but skisłe milk? (add a w to combat the diacritical
distinction in the stated tongue)...
    that sort of milk is gone, way gone,
   you can't serve it with warm baby potatoes
immersed in butter and the herb dill...
   actually? **** it... can't be nostalgic about
the end of the 20th century, i just want to drink
the kind of milk that can go sour...
    and form clots... it's practically yoghurt...
                something an esklimo might call home...
but it's gone... too many preservatives,
the whole natural process is gone,
          this milk i'm drinking?
                            it won't turn sour... it will look
as it was originally intended, but when the counter-nature
movement moves in to allow it to degenerate
into something: o.k., i admit, when it turns
into a quasi yoghurt form...
  but that interview with dave rubin with joe rogan...
a ******* chonmage with the earphones dave...
i must be seeing double,
     maybe the drunk "glasses" can be put to
a more effective use; other than (insert english slang):
seeing a real butters queen-b of chav-dom.
              i'd still **** her though, drunk or sober,
like i once mentioned: anything that moves (to a friend).
now i realise this is getting serious,
    compromised on half an hour to write my
father's roofind invoice like chopin...
i rarely look at the keyboard... so it's either the machine-gun
or piano metaphor for the computer keyboard,
definitely not a general practitioner's
crow-pecking a snail out of dynamic... index peck...
peck... peck... index peck... peck...
                7 days' worth of activity done in half an hour...
he was watching chelsea vs. man utd. and it was
the quarter finals in the f.a. cup...
      i stood there trying to keep the supermarket
walk ritual open until 11pm for my usual dose...
in the 77th minute of the match i forgot the ballerinas
   and heard that there would be a semi-final draw...
back in a minute...
                          so off i went...
       and came back drinking a 85pence ale...
       mmm... fruity...
                             the wheat extract brew was much better
though; i actually had to sniff the head of the bottle
because i: wasn't shopping for perfumes.
that said, i can't remember the last time i washed my entire
body... armpits? sure, everyday... teeth?
what is preached to children, a pea sized dollop
and then the tactic of: quickly does it;
under 30seconds... they tell you you should do it for 3minutes?
they're into employing dentsists.
  oh yeah... that milk thing?
                           what's your suggestion on the sugar
lactose and diabetes?
     what's truly problematic though?
the form... i start of thin... and then my poems become
fat... it's annoying to the point that there is no comparison
to justify this demise...
             like i want a waterfall precision...
but end up with a pyramid (or thereabouts)...
uh, wonky, ~... doing the egyptian wavy hand
gesture... or more like a seesaw: left? right? right?
what?! left?!
                       but most of the time i think about
my uncle (my mother's brother) and the year
when red hot chili peppers released
   their album californication, and spending the summer
working on his vintage porsche, and eating
chips and hot chicken wings...
        mental illness? that's when you turn compuslive...
memory? i can't control my memory...
memories are just conjured like spells culminating
into a jinn being summoned...
                     it's true what they say:
you are bound to not think if the other two major
faculties as stressors to overcome the "need" to think
(and when did happen that einstein ran a marathon
and thought up his *******?) -
                       my main interest is memory,
and to counter the theory of natural selection...
i conjure up memory...
              obviously i have no care for darwinian arguments,
solipsistic? sure, why wouldn't i be?
                     with regard to how i was treated?
it's a pretty natural and readily available resource
to introduce a membrane akin to a cactus.
Under silver wing
    San Francisco's towers sprouting
                thru thin gas clouds,
    Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
        Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
                                             Declaration
                  typewriter at window
         silver panorama in natural eyeball--

Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese
        dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
    State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
           to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's
           blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands'      
                brown wasteland scratched by tires

          Jerry Rubin arrested!  Beaten, jailed,
                 coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace...
        persons of tender years...immature
              judgement...pyschiatric examination..."
i.e. Shut up or Else   Loonybin or Slam

Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000
         lawyer fees, years' negotiations--
SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez'
       paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol
Dylan silent on politics, & safe--
         having a baby, a man--
Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked,

Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher,
         blood splashing down the mountains of bodies
                 on to Cholon's sidewalks--
Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor
        Murderers advance w/ Death-chords
    Earplugs in, steak on plastic
                   served--Eyes up to the Image--

What do I have to lose if America falls?
    my body? my neck? my personality?

                                        June 19, 1968
Don Bouchard  May 2014
Stubble
Don Bouchard May 2014
Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off),

And stop.
Always 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.
grumpy thumb Jun 2020
Passing by those
owners of sad lost eyes
like Rubin's faceless
slumping on kerb ridges 
body bridges
between pavements and
shuttered shop cages
where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up
by dime bag shadows,
30 to 1 outsiders
and washed up wannabe beatniks
too wild for Kerouac pages.
I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there
below the crust of the surface
late in the a.m. between
stiletto heels clip and echo
and the strike and flare
of cigaretted fingers
if I only dared
to thread and seek out
where a different twist of choice nearly led.
Thomas W Case Tom Waits vibe challenge.
This was fun
annanotherthing Apr 2017
“However long we live, life is short and however important man becomes, he is nothing compared to the stars. There are secrets, dear sister, and it is for us to reveal them.”

The world was against her, right from the start,

Wrong time and wrong gender; a mother’s hard heart.

Typhus as a child, fever and chill,

And though unlike many, recovery from ill

She never grew much beyond four feet tall

Perhaps this is why she rose above of it all,

To become a groundbreaker, a real pioneer,

Caroline Herschel – the woman once here.



Denied education, trained only to serve

It was going to take some dedication, some dare and some verve

To get the hell out of 18th Century Germany

And join her brother William across the wide sea.

He was already the talk of the town,

With his songs and his concerts and his wig and his gown.

She joined in the singing but never did blend

Into life, society – no status, no friend.



But now was her chance to start to learn,

And now was her chance to start to earn.

A sibling as your tutor is a real mixed blessing

For algebra, geometry, trigonometry lessons.

He also taught her to sing like a bird,

But she felt trapped in his cage, and refused to be heard,

At any concerts that weren’t his own.

Blood thicker than water and loyal to the bone.



Soon the sky became William’s wanderlust,

Astronomy called, leaving scores gathering dust.

And although she desired to still share her own voice,

She worked to support him, did she have any choice?

She referred to herself as his “well trained pup”;

Doing as he commanded, as they both looked up,

To the stars and recorded whatever they found.

Through the telescopes he built and the lenses she ground.



In March 1781 he was victorious!

His superior telescope discovered Uranus!

It meant one last concert and then her voice no longer heard,

As he became court astronomer to King George the Third.

But it wasn’t just her singing that she felt had been taken,

But her own astronomy practice, as she was always making,

The parts for his scope – hours of polishing with care,

And climbing to fit them, fifty feet up in the air.

“I am much hindered in my practice by my help being continually wanted in the execution of the various astronomical contrivances.”



This Celestial Cinderella was told to ‘sweep’ the sky,

She found she had quite a flair for it; she found she had an eye,

For nebulae, comets, hundreds of stars no man had seen,

Sitting for hours in dark frosty fields with no other human being.

Then after years as his go to girl, events begin to change,

William fell for rich widow Mary Pitt – Caroline’s life was rearranged.

He moved in here, they moved her on, she’d lost her role, for now,

But when William died her nephew John took her back to The Observatory in Slough.



The first ever woman in the world to be paid,

For the contribution to science that she made.

Honorary Member was bestowed on she,

By the totally male Royal Astronomical Society.

They awarded a Gold medal in 1828,

The next woman had 160 years to wait (Vera Rubin fact fiends)

And in her 96th year, for doing her thing,

A Gold Medal for Science; from the Prussian King.



Buried with a lock of William’s hair,

The headstone of her grave declares:

“The eyes of her who is glorified here below

turned to the starry heavens” – yet though,

where other mortals just have granite to be remembered by,

Caroline has markers in the sky:

A place on the moon, ever dancing with earth;

A Comet of ice with a tail of fire bursts.

A remarkable woman, an inspiration to us

Who made her mark on the cosmos, without any fuss.


But there’s just one thing that’s getting me down –

Remembered in this universe, but not in this town.



I’ve minded the heavens, but now I must,

Return to the universe, once more to star dust.

A century of this life for me is enough.

The cosmos is within us. We’re made of such stuff.



anna jones ©2016
KathleenAMaloney Apr 2016
Fog Horn
                                  Crowning Light
                                Upon the Unseen

                                   Revealing Star
                                 Sorrows Journey
                                Broken Promises
                                     Flesh Dyin
                                  Gods Promise
                                      Still Alive

                                        Rubin....
        ­                         A Man By the See
                                         A Lover
                            
.......and a Friend
Life unfolding
Two Paths Now


                                                           Cry For Me Lover


                                                     Pain
                                                     Of a Shattered Kingdom
                                                     And The Violence
                                                     Of a Stolen Heart
                                                     A Wife's ****
                                                      Rothko­'s RED

Caste Out
Before
The World
For Nothing..

                                                     Unwillingness Betrayed
                                                        ­          Heart Torn Open
                                                            ­                    Refusing
                                    ­                                   The Violations
                                                      ­                Of a False God

HORROR Unveiling
Fighting for Life
Fires of Dismantling
Families Betrayal
Eternity I keeping

                                 Power of Prayer
                               CLAIM  me NOW
                                        AMMA
                ­                         Mary
                                         GAIA
                                      Lakshmii
             ­                         Bridgette
                              ­            ISIS
                                     Demeter
                                        KALI
            ­                           Rachel
                                 GoddesSes All
                            And Yet there is only
                                        ONE
                ­                        

                                      
­                                    Marry Me
Don Bouchard  Apr 2016
Stubble
Don Bouchard Apr 2016
Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off)

And then,
At 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.
Men I have known....

— The End —