It’s risky so high, so shaky, so vulnerable.
He peeks over the edge at the people like ants.
Suits and cell phones, all black and business.
Each with a mission in their click-clack heels.
“Back to business, Boy,” grunts Boss, chewing on a soggy cigarette.
Boy wonders if the click-clackers ever mistake cigarette spit for rain

His reflection is transparent but he can still make out
the scar above his eye and the stubble of sleepy dawns
when he stretches and drinks black coffee early with the sun.
Through the reflection the black business arrives.
The magic elevator transforms all ants into stock-market men
and credit-card women who close the curtains.

He wonders how he ended up on the outside,
towering the city with a dripping squeegee,
pulling it over black, lifeless curtains, opaque to the morning sun.
But Boss is busy now with a fresh cigarette
so he turns back around and remembers why he towers
as the magic sun transforms the magic stars
into meshing morning colors, high enough to meet his eye.

it was the
summer
of 13

when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave

amped
the tenderloin

slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen

packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers

their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End

getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society

Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....

the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps

America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers

a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed

Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels

washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe

Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters

millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast

Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours



9/8/13
NYC
jbm

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Our City teetered on collapse as pimps and prostitutes worked Times Square.
That long hot summer of Seventy five, ere Disneyfication happened there.
When fear ruled these streets and crime rode the subway trains.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Fun City’s last mayor had packed and left, the sad faced accountant now held the reins.
Along the Bowery vacant eyed drunks panhandled passersby for change
And squeegee men collected tolls on all the bridges.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Working and Middle class New Yorkers fled the mounting crime and social strain
Open enrollment disrupted schools as educational standards went down the drain
And FALN placed a bomb in Fraunces Tavern.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Then real estate sold for a song; there were so many vacant lots.
Fires up in the Bronx had consumed whole City blocks.
That year the Yankees played their games in Queens.

The bricks and sidewalks still remain though every other thing has changed.
Gerald Ford told the City to drop dead when Beame went to him hat in hand.
Midnight cowboys plied their trade, strangers in a stranger land.
In Yonkers, a deranged young man was taking cues from a black dog.

i have interviews;
plastic plants are placed squarely throughout stale spaces
the real plants are on desks and on window sills,
mainly private offices
where women sit and look out windows;
they wait once a month
for window washers to lather the glass
and it’s calm, their legs are crossed
they wait for the squeegee to screech
and then they wipe away the rain stains
that should have been pressed in a diary

windows get clean slates
at night you can hardly tell that anything is *****
but today the windows are stained
through sunlight one can see it all
even the grasshopper leg pinned to the fourth floor window
where a man is flossing his teeth
after having craved a super food salad
that he won’t allow his assistant to know about

i have interviews;
and i will pick at my **** stockings
hide my pleasant coffee stains
but not shave my ***** hair
i will sit with the women who take pleasure in windows;
collar bones with freckles and sun kissed tints
eyes always nearly closed
because of the succulent hisses by cubicle #3;
they slither through lungs and offer more
than how many words i can type
before someone lights up another cigarette

Glorious showers squeegee the festive blues , they scrub the trees and brighten the moon
They bathe the birdies and sweep the drives , brighten the grass and detail the sky
Brushboard pines fastidiously tend to the oaks , 'Alabamers' leave the homesteads **** 'n span and float the johnboats
The catfish come alive and the crappie bite all night , the crickets seem to chirp non-stop till sunlight arrives* ....

The Royal Military College
and a definition of Leadership

When I was posted to Duntroon
As C.S.M of 'weeds and seeds',
Its grounds I'd walk each afternoon,
Reflecting on my task, it's needs.

Diverse, the soldiers working here;
Musicians, cooks, the stewards and, it's queer
That from my office window to the square,
Listening to the distant band rehearse, I'm so aware

Of differences. My 'Weeds and Seeds' has lot's of them:
The C.Q.M.S., has just one foot, the other taken by a mine.
The sergeant clerk one leg, one eye and D.C.M.
Drivers without licences; all these are mine.

As well - a different lot, there is Ground Maintenance. This, a platoon
Of Infantry, sick and lame, and drivers banned from driving.
And these, the dispossessed, so take my time that soon
The day has insufficient hours and I'm obsessed, and striving

To resolve what seems to me to be a sorry mess
Left by my predecessor and his Signals boss.
All this compounded by a soldier girl, a pretty stewardess,
Attracting cadets like children round the candy floss.

Doing extra training in the Company Orderly room, that girl.
Stripping back the Lino covered floor and laying polish.
And like the Lino was her weekend stripped of any social whirl
By my reluctance to charge her or to admonish.

This extra training, it was how I thought to exercise my will
On soldiers, disparate, without cohesiveness from within;
Without a unit. And besides, whoever would I find to give close order drill
If all I did was march the guilty ******* in?

Thus it was this day, a balmy, sunny, Sunday afternoon;
The sort of day on which the very soul rejoices;
That after having supped my beer in Sergeants' Mess, Duntroon,
And walking past my office going home, do I hear muffled, unexpected voices.

'Hello, hello. What is all this? What is going on in there'?
Mumbling, giggling, that's the sound I hear of busy industry?
Intrigued, I look to see my victim perched high on wooden chair
Placed on a table, while on their knees her busy, working coterie,

Cadets, bums up, heads down, nosing round the Orderly Room,
Bucket, mop, and squeegee poised behind the flourished, sweeper's broom.
'Oh look at me' I hear them cry - that universal lovers' call.
But their target, when she smiles, she smiles at them one and all.

While to my floor they give their all, a super, waxen, polished gleam.
Because of promises implied and sweetness smiling, seated there.
Of leadership still they've much to learn, t'would seem.
And what better teacher than the pretty girl perched on that chair.

A chamber wreathed by powdered scarab husks
Leaden dervish whirling
Cookie cutter punches
Sideways churlish purling
A muffled roar mid-whistle
Doppled whisper curling
A puckered ejection
Twisting gristle
Saturnal tick
Gorging gorges with squeegee sips

You call when I’m reading
(Every article, like I’m in prison,
Something about rifles and cartridges)
Even in second language jokes
You’re the best part of their day
You talk of Abaco and water
Anne and the Mud
I can only say
It washed over.
I wake in the night
And my mother’s up
With a light cane thumping and florescent lighting.
In the early morning I *** outside
Relieved by open space
I pull the arrows
I list groceries
It’s the best part of the day.

The feedback of his hearing aids
The forgotten novel
Solitaire
The lightly fondled newspaper
What’s your mother doing?
Did your Dad go back to bed?
What day is it?
They mostly miss each other
When death idles under the carport
When the starving aren’t hungry
I miss them too
While she was forgetting
And he was dying

I remember when my grandmother died
My father, aunts and uncles around her
A minute in the bedroom
A hug, sudden
Death crisp as a *******
But this, it’s not you
The table you made was there, and here
Refinished
I’m not sure how to clean the pellet stove
I hug your wife
The ballot issues alongside her coffee
“Oh, ****!”.  Just vote yes.
Toasted banana bread
As I stand at the bedroom door
Checking for signs of life

She asks me who your wife is
Who your brother is married too
Who am I
Marriage is a fading order,
My kids don’t know.
After 66 years of her own,
Now my mother doesn’t either.


I stop for fossil fuel
For the long-handled sponge and squeegee
Radio whites talking Jesus between scans
My sister caring, weary, crying
Competency smiling
I lean there
Eat raisined grapes, frog eye salad, boiled egg
You sit bedside in my brace
With alabaster thighs and raspy breath
You want to write checks
You guess to stay in bed
I don’t know what death is
But I want it for you

My hunger is a coated almond
Next to your pill box
Only Monday is empty
You thank me, not knowing about tomorrow
Creases in the carpet, shrinking
You’re the smallest of the nesting dolls
You want an Oregon pill
Not what Tuesday offers
Your disappointment breathes
I wonder about your loving God

I have a birthday card
Still blank
Don’t know if you’ll make it to Friday
Doubt you’ll breathe enough to wake
wake enough to read
What to wish for you
I wish for the end
I scribble deep breaths

We came, somehow all of us converging
They came, and wrapped your body
Wheeled it out the front way
The bed changed, a meal shared
Lives diverge again
For six decades
We had you
To gather around
To go first
I’d like to miss you
But you’re still here…
What day is it?

Cookie crumbs and flower petals
Sympathy cards when death is over
Moments when you miss him so much
His ashes noticed by parcel post
I clean the pellet stove
I rummage in his drawer
For a T-shirt
In your overheated house
Stain of glue
So like mine
Home where you were

I took some nails, washers, some trowels
Rags, wing nuts, his stuff
You think I’m as obvious as lasagna
But I’m more than layers
Today I found the post office
Took the box marked
Cremated remains
She put the canister
Behind the chrysanthemum
Blooming in November
I stretched on the floor
She on the couch
We napped
Had ravioli for dinner

My eyes awaken as the night falls asleep…

Did you lock the door did you say goodnight did you
Floss between every single tooth did you brush your teeth
For two minutes because otherwise they might rot did you
Complete every piece of homework did you cross everything off
In your planner did you squeegee each drop of water each
and every
Drop did you

Think about what would happen if the sun exploded or
If all the stars in the universe became ten times
Brighter or remember that one time you got that
One text from that one friend on that one day did you
Remember to respond or to turn off the
Oven or to listen to that one song or… wait.
What will you have for dinner tomorrow night what
Did you have for breakfast yesterday how
Did it taste did you lock the door lock the door lock the door lock
The door

Stutter

But not quite a stutter, just enough of a
Stutter to make people think there’s something
“Off” but
Not enough of a stutter to make people believe there’s something
Wrong thoughts
Ideas questions swarm like bees in
Your head but remember no one knows
No one knows
No one knows
No one
Knows that maybe there’s a genius idea in there
Somewhere in
There but it’s too hard to pick
Out because you can’t forget about that one thing that
Happened on that one day or if you
Forgot to say please
Say thank you
Answer that text
Lock the door
Tell her you love her
Tell her you hate her
Tie your shoes
Play that song
Cut your nails
Stop.

The night awakens as my eyes fall asleep.

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.