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.

Farewell Govan -
bathed in a baking sun
littered with betting shops
and no win/no fee criminal lawyers
and a myriad of pubs caked in years of libation
steeped in history of industry and shipbuilding
blackened smoked walls etched with gangland symbols:
tooled-up local carnivores who ride shotgun on a BMX
swapping discrete envelopes for indiscreet wads of cash.

Farewell Govan -
you fractured my ribs once in a moment of mistaken identity
I didn't heed the advice to not walk through the park at night
I didn't hear the pitter-patter of adolescent feet
speeding my way in brand new trainers across the grass
but I did feel the clunk of something solid on my head
as the ground rushed up to meet me in a concrete embrace
and watched as 4 bags of overladen shopping spewed out
lying face up spread-eagle in Lilliput fashion
and a mobile torch-app in my face with the repeating words
“Ima tellin’ you man its naw him, its naw him”
I reassured them frantically that I was definitely not him!
as the hooded troupe picked up what was left of my shopping
and even gifted me a couple of cans of super strength lager,
a cube of dubious council estate hash
and an usher to leave immediately
(and think myself lucky).

Farewell Govan -
you got me blazing on cheap beer at the local pub
which had recreated a holiday beach scene
with a hand-written sign that read: Better than Ibiza!
awash with carefree children
and pit-bull terriers wearing bespoke Barbour dog jackets
and brand spanking new Adidas white trainers
purchased from Tam out of a nondescript blue plastic bag
who always passes the day's pleasantries
while topping up his pension
chatting with auld Billy who was in the war (don’t you know)
via the Merchant Navy
and the version of how he was gunner on an oil boat in Vietnam
via the umpteenth pint that afternoon.

Farewell Govan -
your late night shadows harbour an underlying tension
masked with comic humour only if you can understand the lingo
words that are distasteful anywhere else are in fact a term of endearment here
I shall miss the odious vernacular and doth my cap to your spirit
the Salt of the Earth and the Lifeblood of the Community
with at least 40% proof liquids mixed with Irn Bru
purchased at the 24/7 corner store along with a can of processed peas;
one of your five a day.

Farewell Govan -
I go to the sunny side of the Clyde
where it rains just as much
but you don’t get mugged for carrying an umbrella
or asked for the time from a watch-wearing tattooed sailor
and joy-of-joys there will be actual fruit & veg shops
where I don’t have to explain what fresh coriander is
and what you use it for, other than on a pizza;
I was offered dried bottled parsley instead.

Farewell Govan.

tossing around. over and over.
I grab my clock
4:06 am
what now

I can't stop thinking
my mind is filled with confusion
confusion about love
about life, about me

who am i? i ask
why does my true personality have to be so unattainable
why does it have to be so absolutely true that not even I
not even my parents or friends will understand

I want to run to the root and tell the world who I am
no. i tell myself, its too late
**** it. i say, who cares now?
no one.

I grab my shoes and barbour and climb the stairs toward the gates of hell
the gates of freedom, of insubordination, of truth
with boiling blood oozing, seeping, crawling and consuming terrified souls

I grasp the thick walls that prevent me from the end
the coarse black paint rubs off onto me
I smear the charcoal onto my face
i yell. i cry. i scream.
but still, no one hears me.

I day dreamed. And it went something like this.
I was standing in a forest on a little oath underneath a beautiful and elegant white arch. golden brown and red leaves surrounded me.
I was wearing a fantastic black suit, With a very very faded array of grey pinstripes. I looked down to my shoes, And they were a nice black leather pair. My hair was slicked back and I had a Barbour shave my face. I had never been so fancy in my life.
You appeared from what seemed like thin air. You were absolutely stunningly dressed in a white dress that hugged your body just ever so elegantly. With a beautiful train and tiara on your head, you were the most beautiful thing on the planet.
There were whispered remarks of how much more beautiful you were than anyone in the crowd behind us. You walked with such grace you didn't even disturb the leaves on the ground.
I teared up and got a pat on the back and was reminded by a voice that had no face to be strong.
We stood apart from each other under the arch.
There was only one tear on your face.
On your left side.
All of a sudden, Out of nowhere, You opened your mouth and in a hushed voice you said "I don't want to be married."
The next thing i saw was the tree canopy. I guess I fell. I got up and you were apologizing, But I ran for my life. I was in a bar all of a sudden, I had already had a few drinks judging by the empty bottles on the bar top. I walked outside, More like stumbled. But you were there, No longer in your elegant dress but a sweatshirt and slacks. You said you were sorry. In a rage a bellowed out that I was sorry for breathing. You pulled me close and said "I'll fix you".
And it was then I felt the pain in my chest. You had put some kind of blade through me. You told me to sleep well. The next thing I saw was the white washed walls of an operation room. You were above in a viewing room. I blacked out. You were standing in front of me and said you had ran off with a childhood friend and were having a shotgunwedding. I let out a small choke of a cry, And said don't worry, This time I'll fix myself. The room went black as I kicked a stool out from under my feet. I felt a quick pain and heard you say "good, You'll finally be right". Then I realized I was stuck reliving the last days of my life.

$1.50 shirt from the thrift store, $40 Ralph Lauren shorts, back to school Vans shoes, and some confidence.
Riding my bike around blocks hoping to find some inspiration even though I've been writing more than ever, still feel empty after I'm done.
Got plenty numbers on my phone, but I only talk to one and thats through kik messenger.
Have a lot to say but no one wants to listen to someone that's delusional.
I started thinking straight though, these days make a lot more sense.
I try not writing about the world anymore, I dont have a clue about it.
I think my bike makes me feel a lot better when I feel sad, I feel like with every peddle I take it erases little pieces of big worries or bad memories.
I try to peddle as much as I can.
I miss a lot of things.
I always wonder what would happen if a car ran me over when I'm riding my bike.
I always ride on the big streets even though my mom tells me not to, I dont like listening.
I always do the opposite of what anyone doesn't want me to do.
"Dont do drugs", you'll see me buying.
"Dont love me", you'll see me post links on Twitter to poetry about that person.
I started reading about useless subjects, none of that really matters.
Ian G. Barbour is a loser.
Just love, and believe in what you want to believe in.
I want to sign my name on books I wrote while I was depressed, but I don't see that happening anymore.
I'm outside listening to crickets, is this how it sounds when I make a joke?
I don't see any stars, I'm kind of relieved when I dont see any.
I used to think stars were just reflections of sad people on earth, I thought that 4 months ago.
My therapist thought I was delusional, I could see it in her eyes and in how she talked to me.
These mosquitoes are getting annoying so I'm going end this.
Remember, "a strange grey distance separates our pale mind still from the pulsing continent of the heart of man".

The North of the Borough
is often more than a geographical zone
its a state of mind.
Always the under  
yet never standing down.
Howler down your Motorola Razr
and kiss confidence into this brick !
I want your barbour jacket
gifted stares and then blanks,
keenly seeing off your Ray -Ban,
downing your peacock pride
that overplayed our top deck

em...
what do you get when you

mix an
eilidh barbour

   &
        a
   janice fiamengo?

more like:
robbie williams
  party like a russian

and nothing,
even remotely
related to
    gabriella climi's
sweet about me...

and that's certainly
not a dog *******'s
fetish
coming from
breeding a breed
of dog borrowing
from an alsatian
and a labrador...

   and just ever so
slightly not
wanting to invoke
a rottweiler...

   dobermann?
   1980s *** symbol...
and in all honesty?

  i'd never think up
cutting a rottweiler's
tail off...

come at me again...

what do you get
from mixing
a     eilidh barbour
   &
        a
   janice fiamengo?

o.k.,
i do have a soft-spot
for someone like
  a monica roccaforte...
(i used to date
a girl who reminded
me of her)...
aria giovanni:
****... used to date
a girl that reminded me
of her too...

esp. when the lights
were dimmed...

       now:
i'm all for ******* off
the ego that's a ****
that's the *******
in writing of
some 20th century
gay poet...

             well...
   that's what kissing a *******
for an hour does
to a man...
           just 2 hours prior
she was probably
entertaining
a sadist who'd choke her
and **** her till she'd
start spewing:
                         hurt me...

now the me,
the ***** and the ice cubes
stay...
              
i've come to realise:
everyone looks
like a mug
                      when looking
at himself in a c.c.t.v.
backfeed
in a supermarket
automated checkout...

yeah, that: i used
to be thin and pweetty...
     thank ****
i bypassed
the need to ingest
metaphorical viagara
pills for that:
perfect suntan and
toned amps and excesses
of limbs...

no latex no
***** *** noir scenes...
i'm almost thrilled,
but certainly tantalized
by having plebeian
pleasures:
kept intact by
  being repressed in
the form of:
      sorry...
i'm not in the queue
where
people forget the polite:
excuse me...
and barge...
             elbows first;

if only love was
like the sort of love
in eric clapton's:
wonderful tonight...

       two word ending:

texan cleavage:
sometimes i can't
tell apart
the pair of *******
from the ****
    of a whistling
                 ***-crack...

'ola templar chants
and a shrimp-sized-****-shiver
of a shiver...

          boy turned man
via the football supporters'
attire of a golf cap...

   fore!
yonder:
   while an eagle took
           a shy't(e).