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.

I.
I once asked about halations, and wondered what they were;

If they did at all exist, for once.

How they'd appear only in blurry and unfocused pictures;
Or perhaps at times, still and expectant on the verge of our tears?

Now the question:
"What makes a halation?" And if we're thinking of the same thing.


II.
So I then wrote about halations, and tried to make (believe) sense—  
of what they were (not) portraying.

I spoke of their lucidity amongst all others;
of their ever-curious charm,
and of their picturesque whims—

yet denied them a photograph; and opt for another.

Hence was said:
"More than a picture; a metaphor."

In other words: are we thinking of the same thing?


III.
With it, I'll once again talk about halations, and wonder where they are;

Wonder when they might appear.

If the lights still scatter after—
and on the far side: if they would cast the same fair shades then.

Here I quote:
"For every shot taken is merely a remnant of the most beautiful."

I will speak of the light; and without doubt—
be thinking of a different someone.

Lucent gold halations that seer in sight,
flesh akin to plush saline gelatin,
kingfishers song, mellifluent as streams,
drones that palpitate in the heart and nag the mind,
hiding your enmity and silent screams.

Sediment slabs purl down soft rock,
parched charcoal lathers soot - scintillate,
smothered form in slate deluge,
where the sun can take refuge,
saturnine in the hiemal shift of the alcove,
and nebulous spume caroms  - gaseous halations ,
off scalding waters, sweet smoke arise,
tenuous strings of light gossamer in the eyes ,
meshed scales loll down,
corona tendrils stream over sunken psilocybe,
equilibrium sun-warped - flares effulgent,
seeping into trails of salt-lacerated skin,
wax beads singeing skin - summer hit of apocalypse fever