ODE TO LOUIE LOUIE - 1980 - 2023

ODE TO LOUIE LOUIE

Louie Louie Oh No we gotta go
1963
Eleven years old
A Boy Scout at the Hyde Park YMCA
Looking to get my Swimming Merit Badge
Scared of Polio in the pool
Scared of the chlorine
Scared of drowning
The Scout instructor shouting,
"Twenty laps."
"One lap underwater."
"Rescue your buddy."

Scared of the cold polio water
Scared of after lesson showers
The Scout instructors liked young boys.
Not me.
No Village People in the YMCA
Not in 1963.

Only naked men and boys in the steamy showers
I saw nothing
Eyes shut
I felt nothing
Only my hands and the steam
I heard moans
Of boys and men
I knew nothing
Not the word 'fuck'.
I was pure
Audio pure of curse words and their meanings
Singing Louie Louie in the shower.

Another boy liked Louie Louie too
John
A normal name
His left leg was missing
Cancer.
John was from Readville
My age
He knew more than me
Maybe because he had less life ahead
We sang Louie Louie together

In the locker room
Not the showers
The Kingsmen song was a hit
A hit banned by the radio.
A hit Arnie Ginsberg played twice a night.
On WMEX
50000 watts of power

At the end of the AM dial
Next to WILD
The black station
They played LOUIE LOUIE too

John told me why
"Someone says fuck in it."
"Fuck?"
Catholic altar boy ignorance.
John taught the meaning.
"People in and out."
He rubbed his stump.
He told me more.
There was no 'fuck' in the Mass
Or the Bible.
Only fuck in LOUIE LOUIE
Fuck on 50000 watts
Fuck across the USA
FUCK FUCK FUCK
"Yeah fuck."

It was the youth of America's secret
From coast to coast
A cool secret on the night airwaves
One-legged John hummed the opening
I hummed too

Only one problem

What was fuck?
I knew nothing
I could ask no one
Maybe it was what I did with my sister's Barbie and Ken
Naked dolls
Fuck
LOUIE LOUIE
"I gotta ta go, yeah yeah yeah."
Repeat
"Louie Louie I got ta go
Yeah yeah yeah
Fuck

ps I only knew One Leg John from the swimming lessons
pps LOUIE LOUIE was originally at 1956 hit by Richard Berry

According to Wikipedia just prior to the song's release, Berry sold his portion of the publishing and songwriting rights for "Louie Louie" and four other songs for $750 to Max Feirtag, the head of Flip Records, to raise cash for his upcoming wedding.

In the mid-1980s, Berry was living on welfare. Drinks company California Cooler wanted to use "Louie Louie" in a commercial, but discovered it needed Berry's consent because he still owned the radio and television performance rights. The company asked the Artists Rights Society to locate him which led to Berry's taking legal action to regain his rights to the song. The settlement made Berry a millionaire.

Yeah Louie Louie.

Whoosh

Aging

As you get old you forget, as you get older, you are forgotten, then you forget everything. - James Steele - International fugitive

Vote Early Vote Often

On the night of Obama's election we danced in the streets in Nolita. I wandered up to Union Square. The park cracked with the joy. We had a black president. An older black man and I met eyes. We cried and hugged remembering the struggle. A small phalanx of riot police gathered at the corner of University and 14th Street. They were nervous. Their white-shirted officer scanned the celebration and spotted a reveler climbing a street lamp. People were cheering him. The captain shouted out an order. The squad linked shields. I strode in front of the officers and said, "Stand down. I'll handle this."

"How?" demanded the captain. "This is a big crowd "

"Big?" I laughed and said, "This is nothing. I was a doorman at Studio 54. Gimme thirty seconds."

I walked across the street, pushed through the crowd, shouted to the young man on the pole to get down. He obeyed, since I pointed to the cops. Then returned to the cops and said, "That's how you handle a crowd."

ps. I had only been a doorman at Studio for a month well after Steve and Ian sold it to Mark Fleischman, who bought it, because no one ever let him in, despite his wealth. The crowds on West 54th Street were not the thousands faced by Mark Binecke and his crew, but sometimes they numbered a couple score.

Vote early, vote often. - Mayor James Michael Curley of Boston

December 13, 1978 - East Village - Journal

I was born in Boston.

Raised on Falmouth Foresides
And the South Shore.
In 1976
I left for good.
New York bound,
Two years now
Yet I miss New England

The White Mountains
The Maine Coast
Old Orchard Beach,
Portland's Eastern Promenade
The two old schooners rotting off Wicassett

Decaying river towns;
Lowell, Manchester, Saco, Chicopee, White River Junction
Beaches,
Nantasket, Wollaston, Horseneck Beach, Truro,
Cape Ann, Gloucester, Marblehead, the Beverly Salem Bridge

Lobstah, fried clams, Italian Sandwiches, and damned Chowdah.

From Lake Champlain across the Green Mountains
To the Connecticut River

Over the White Mountains
On the The Kancamagus Highway

Down to Newport and Across the Block Island.
New England. Oh New England.

Bridgeport, New Haven, New London.
We are not New York.

South of Boston

The Blue Hills
Swimming in the Quincy Quarries,
Tramping to the top of Chickatawbut
At 517 feet to the east
Big Blue to the west
635 feet.
Nothing taller from Key West to Mount Cadillac in Acadia
Just Blue Hill Tower
The hills of my youth
Of my teen years
Sex with Linda Imhoff
Long-legged
Shaven clean
Twenty -six
Us
Naked in the back seat of a VW
Possible
Not Easy
But possible
At Eighteen atop Rattlesnake Hill.
No forests
Fifteen generation trees
Stone farm walls
Tumbled by the frost
Bog ponds and swamps
My home town.
Forever New England.

A FINE DAY FOR SAILING by Peter Nolan Smith

My grandmother hailed from County Mayo in Ireland. Her last name was Walsh. At the age of fourteen Nana traveled to Boston by ship. Most of the other passengers were cattle.

"It was an awful crossing. Storms most of the way. We sailed in the Year of the Crow," she told her grandchildren in her lovely Gaelic accent.

"When was that?" I asked to pin down her age.

"That's my secret."

Women from the West of Ireland were experts at keeping secrets, however that ocean voyage was so traumatic that she had never returned to Ireland, even though every year my mother and her sisters offered to fly Nana to Shannon.

“I don’t want to see that ocean again.”

She was adamant with this decision and avoided any sight of the sea.

In the summer of 1958 my older brother and I regularly stayed at Nana's house in Jamaica Plains to give my parents a break from taking care of six children.

One weekend my parents proposed Nana to take the ferry and meet them for a family outing at Nantasket Beach. They were taking our younger siblings to a church event farther down the South Shore. Nana's other daughters were bringing her grandchildren and Nana loved us all.

"You'll save us a long ride back there."

"I'll not take the ferry. We'll take the bus."

"The bus will take hours," said my mother.

"The ferry is a short ride." My father had been born on the coast of Maine and like mother he loved swimming in ocean.

"Nana, can we go?" I pleaded with her. "I've never been on a ship."

"I don't like the sea.

"It's not the sea. It's a harbor."

"All the same to me, but I'll do it, because I love you." Nana shut her eyes, as if she were reliving a horror of that North Atlantic crossing from the Year of the Crow.

"Thank you," my mother hugged her youngest daughter and they left Nana's Jamaica Plains apartment with my brothers and sisters for our home under the Blue Hills.

The next day was a hot day and we looked forward to the swim in the cold green Atlantic. The three of us rode the train from Forest Hills to Haymarket and then walked to Lowe's Wharf. The pennants on the SS Nantasket flapped in the light breeze.

Not a single cloud marred on the sky above the calm harbor.

"Looks like a fine day for sailing," the purser said taking our tickets.

"I've heard that before and from another man staying on land."

Nana sat us inside the steamship. The ferry departed on time and the sea breeze cooled the hundreds of the passengers. A clown prowled the lower decks to entertain the children. He had a funny wig and big floppy feet. He scared my brother and me and we kept our distance.

The trip was scheduled to last about 30-40 minutes, however the wind picked up once we cleared Georges Island and the sea smashed over the bow. Nana clung to my brother and me, while the clown and scores of children slid across the tilting deck.

"Was your trip on the Atlantic this bad?' asked my brother.

"The waves were tall as buildings. The ship was awash water. Cows were swept overboard. They screamed moos in the ocean. I can hear them now."

She unleashed a mournful moo.

It sounded of death.

"And people were lost?" My brother gaped at the waves crashing over the hull.

"Cows only. Thank God," Nana muttered a prayer and pulled us close.

Several minutes later the storm ended faster than it began and we landed at Nantasket on schedule.

My mother stood outside the Waiting Station on the pier.

"Say nothing," Nana said walking down the gangplank.

Yes, Nana." The Irish knew how to hold their sand.

"How was the trip?" asked my mother, seeing the abating panic in the eyes of the other passengers.

"Grand."

"So what about a trip to Ireland?"

"Not a chance."

Nana spent the afternoon at the bandshell. Her feet didn't touch the beach. She was glad to leave Nantasket and even happier to arrive back to her house in Jamaica Plains. It was far from the wicked sea. She kissed us good-night.

"It was a fine day for sailing," I told her.

"That it was."

Nana had a way with words, but an even better one without words.

Her kiss was my ticket to dreamland and none of those dreams involved the ocean.

Maith á aithne agam uirthi.

I finally figured out the Year of the Crow. Nana's birth year was a mystery, until I looked at her marriage certificate from 1919. She married Peter Nolan from the Aran Isles. He was 34 and she was 26. Her date of birth was 1893, unless she lied about her age, as had my mother on her driver's license. She had been fourteen at the time of her crossing the Atlantic in 1907. Sent by her mother and father to help the family in Mayo. Five years before the Titanic.

Alone.

Coming down the gangway in Boston, she broke the heel on her shoe. Thankfully her Uncle Michael, a priest, was waiting on the dock. This wasn't a tourist trip and he took her right up to Salem to be a serving girl for the rich. Never to go to sea again, except with us. So long ago.

Foto - Nana Nolan and Me - 1953

Other Information The Mayflower provided passenger service between Boston and Nantasket Beach from the 1890s through the 1930s. In the 1940s she was taken out of service, grounded at Nantasket Beach, and converted into a nightclub called the the Showboat. The Showboat operated for many years, but by the 1970s, it had become a derelict and abandoned structure. In the autumn of 1979, it caught fire under unknown circumstances and burned to the ground.

The steamers of the Nantasket Beach Steamboat Line were a popular mode of transportation in the early 1900s. They provided quick and easy transportation between Boston and Nantasket Beach, and other destinations around Boston Harbor and the Massachusetts South Shore. On Thanksgiving Day in 1929 (November 28th), the company's six steamers were docked for the winter at Nantasket's Steamboat Wharf (Nantasket Pier). On that day, a large fire broke out and destroyed 5 of the steamers -- the Nantasket, Mary Chilton, Old Colony, Rose Standish and Betty Alden. Only the Mayflower was pulled to safety and survived the fire. For more information on the 1929 Steamboat Wharf fire.Other Information The Mayflower provided passenger service between Boston and Nantasket Beach from the 1890s through the 1930s. In the 1940s she was taken out of service, grounded at Nantasket Beach, and converted into a nightclub called the the Showboat. The Showboat operated for many years, but by the 1970s, it had become a derelict and abandoned structure. In the autumn of 1979, it caught fire under unknown circumstances and burned to the ground.

from wreckhunters.com

Montauk Train # 19

Amagansett
Empty golf course
FourteenPile Of Stones minutes
From Montauk___
I have never played golf
Pitch and Putt
Once in Queen's Park
London
Back in the last century
With friends
Nina, Ingi and others
The Persian, Maid Marion, Frank, maybe Fingers
Maybe others___
A beautiful September afternoon
Queen's Park
Who won
No one cared
No one counted the score___

Kids licking ice cream
Softies
Exit the Park
Passing George Orwell's house
Thirteen Years past 1984
Remember it like thirteen years ago
Especially the ice cream
Dripping on the Kids hands___
Now
The Montauk train pulling into the station
Five minutes late___

Uncle Bubba - Lookalike

Last night some young admirer struggled and mistakenly called me Uncle Festus. I said to them and their waif friends "The only part of me that is bald are my shaved cock and balls."

Most people think I look like Eric Roberts, but I prefer Jeff Bridges.

Montauk Bluffs # 3

Venus
Shine
To the west
Fog 'neath
The bluffs
Full moon
Rising
In the East

Knicks Versus Celtics - Game 1 - 2024-2025 Season

Tonight the NBA season opens with the New York Knicks playing the World Champion Boston Celtics at Boston Garden. There is another name for that arena, however I live only partially in this century of corporate control. The present value of the Boston franchise is estimated at $5.12 billion and the present owners are considering selling the team. The Celtic players might consider this, however this year's combined salary is $230 million. The Grousbeck's group bought the Celtics in 2002 for $360 million and are contemplating dumping the franchise for “estate and family planning purposes,” according to statement released on Monday. That news came less than two weeks after the Celtics won their NBA-record 18th title, and with the team facing hard financial decisions about how to keep together a roster than won the most games in the NBA last season according to sportico.com.

Sportico also values the Knicks at $7.4 billion. Rich men's stratosphere. LeBron, the wealthiest active player, has about $1.2 billion. Not even close enough to purchase his present team, the LA Lakers, although The Cleveland Cavaliers NBA franchise was valued at $3.35 billion in October 2023, according to Forbes. This was a 63% increase from the previous year, when the franchise was valued at $2.05 billion. Inflation or greed is everywhere.

Still I'm a fan. I have been a fan since a child in Falmouth Foreside, Maine, listening to Johnny Most announce the game from the old Boston Garden in 1958. I was planning to wear something smart, but I'm taking out my Celtics gear. This might be New York City, but Go Celtics. It will be a tough game and the Knicks are geared up for a championship. Bring it on.

Plastic Everywhere - Myrtle Avenue

I've taken to picking up plastic and cans and paper from the streets. Just so I can turn around and not see trash on the sidewalks. People buy snacks and drinks not for their health, but to just consume due to the relentless advertising from the corporate food chain. The most popular trash; potato chips. The modern manna of the people. A complete meal of non-food suppressing hunger. I try not to eat them, but I took succumb to their crunchy allure. The body and mind are so weak. So I pick up the trash. Someone has too.

I know a man who doesn't pay to have his trash taken out. How does he get rid of his trash? He gift wraps it, and puts in into an unlocked car.

Henny Youngman

VDO Imbiss Cambodia 2007

Published Feb 11, 2024

During Songkran 2009 Nik Reiter and I overlanded across Cambodia from Pattaya to Sihanoukville. Someplace betwixt point A and point B we had to stop for a river ferry in the middle of nowhere. Upstream the Preak Piphot disappeared into the jungle. A small stall on the muddy bank sold frikadeller, a German delight. a strange offering on a road mostly traveled by locals. The shop was owned by an old Kraut from Berlin in his sixties. I ordered a few frikadeller and spoke with him in German. My accent pure South Shore Boston. South of the ferry landing workers were constructing a bridge and after bidding him 'chus', we crossed the river sad to think another nowhere would vanish for good, but damn those frikadellers were good.

East Berlin Immer Eis Cream - 2013

Back in 1989 one West German Mark bought a huge ice cream in East Berlin's Alexanderplatz.

Two marks bought two ice creams.

For good girls.

Berlin October 1982

Berlin October 1982 A Pan-Am flight from Hamburg A Geldstadt Money City To Tempelhof. West Berlin. Behind the Iron Curtain.

Henri Flesh et moi DJ und Tursteher Nachtclub Leute. Bsirs for the Reeperbahn pimps.

Taxi Zum der VierZeitenJahren Hotel No bags Only Two grams of Persian brown. We're remaking THE JOURNAL OF ELIZABETH D Without the writer. We left her in Hamburg. She's safer there.

Check into the hotel. Concierge looks like Dirk Bogarde. From THE NIGHT PORTER Not a stray hair out of place. No click of his heels. Still everything about him Nazi.

We unpack. Huff some Persian brown. I wish it were China White. Change into bathing trunks. Both of us Greyhound slim. We swim in the tiled pool. It dates back to before the war. The Great War. 1914-1918 Our grandfathers served in France. Long long ago.

Two couples exit from the sauna. Speedos for the men Bikinis for the women Older The men Former Nazis Proud.

They never lost the war. Henri is French. He sees them too. For what they were and are. "Salauds."

They see us for us. Auslanders. I stare at them. "Nazis."

The word crosses the pool. They hear it. They know who they were And who they are. I get out. Get my towel We leave. Turn Spit on the floor "Nie weider." Never again.

Kurdammstrasse. Wealth The West Zoo Station in the afternoon. No action. Eat Eisbein Pig foot Drink Berlin Weisse Bier Go to Der Dschungel Disco Dance with TVs Do Persian brown. The West rules At least this isn't Berlin 1945. In the AM we go to the East The Berlin Wall stretching out of sight. This side graffiti The other side A Death Zone Ladnmines, dogs, and snipers Through Checkpoint Charlie To East Berlin Passports bitte A squat female border guard We are of interest For thirty seconds. Willkommen zu Democratic Deutschland. The Workers Paradise. Alles ist in Ordernung.

A walk through the ruins Bullet holes in the buildings All gone in West Berlin A Trabant shutters by Like an out-of-control lawnmower. No people on the streets. Very few in Karl Marx Platz Parking anywhere. On a back street Nothing to buy in the shops The sound of boots A Soviet patrol Goose-stepping Like Nazis A German cellar bar Order Berliner Pilsner For the twelve people at the tables No one drinks them. They are all Stazi Henri says Secret police Like the Gestapo. We leave East Berlin Without even a postcard.

Back in the West Capitalism on the K-Damm We have Persian smack We are young. Free Both of wish Christine F was with us. Henri more than me They are something. At now for now In both West and East Berlin Fur Immer and always.

Berlin Wall a la Pattaya - 2009

The Berlin Wall fell in November of 1989.

Several years ago a German expat in Pattaya tried to recreate one of many escape attempts over the infamous barrier between East and West by trying to evade police by leaping over a concrete wall topped by barbed wire in a state of nakedness. Stasi Police would have shot him dead back in the good old days of the DDR, however the Thai police responded by restraining the unclothed man and remanding the madman to his embassy.

I recall reading back in the 1970s about another mad German attempting suicide by an escape over the Berlin Wall. He ran out into the minefield without exploding a single bomb, then climbed the wall to become tangled in the wire. The guards shot at him and their errant bullets snapped the barbed wire, so the verrückter Mann fell into West Berlin. Disappointed by failures he jumped into the River Spree to drown only to be rescue by the US Army.

He cursed them all and fled into the path of a street car.

It killed him dead and he died a happy free man.

There is no success like a suicide getting to the end at last.

Free at last. Freikeit im Der Ende.

The Wall Of Unfreedom - 2014

The Berlin Wall was erected in 1961 by the East German Communist regime to prevent its citizens from fleeing the repressive Soviet-led government. The concrete barrier was constructed was constructed with 45,000 separate sections of reinforced concrete, each 3.6 metros (12 ft) high and 1.2 metros (3.9 ft) wide, and cost DDM 16,155,000 or about US$3,638,000 according to Wikipedia.

In 1982 I visited Berlin. The Wall or Antifaschistischer Schutzwall was a must-see for tourists. Henri Flesh, a Paris DJ, and I stood atop a viewing platform. A death zone lay beyond the wall brimming with mines and surveyed by assassin snipers. In 1982 one person was killed by the border guards. His name was Lothar Fritz Freie. He was shot in a restricted area.

The Berlin Wall fell with the collapse of the USSR in 1989, however in recent years the Zionist government of Israel has built a greater wall to protect themselves from the wrath of the Palestinians. The West Bank Barrier is much taller and thicker than the Berlin Wall. Its path cuts across the Occupied Territories with the express purpose of seizing more land for the creation of settlements for right-wing settlers dedicated to the expulsion or extermination of any non-Zionist population.

The British built a similar wall to preserve the Lost Provinces on Ireland.

They failed to prevent the rise of the IRA.

Same as the wall failed for the USSR or the Border Patrol on the Mexican border.

People flow like water and freedom of movement is the way of the world.

Free Palestine. Free Ulster. Free the world.

The Fall of Berlin Wall 1989 - 2009

"Ich bin en Berliner."

These words were spoken by JFK before the grim barrier in 1961.

I have stood at the wall in 1982. Its shabby concrete was graffiti-splattered on the Western side. The other side was a no-man's land of mines, dogs, and guard towers. I had crossed over to East Berlin via Checkpoint Charlie. I was immediately struck by the amount of parking available on the streets. Beer was plentiful and cheap. food was good and even cheaper. There was nothing to buy in the shops, so I spent my deutschmarks on beer for the locals. They grumbled 'danke' like they were stuck with communism for the rest of their lives.

Hope sprung anew with Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan gave this speech at the UN.

"We welcome change and openness; for we believe that freedom and security go together, that the advance of human liberty can only strengthen the cause of world peace. There is one sign the Soviets can make that would be unmistakable, that would advance dramatically the cause of freedom and peace. General Secretary Gorbachev, if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"

Nothing happened that day and no one expected the Berlin Wall to fall. The UUSR's missiles were pointed at the USA and the West. They numbered in the thousands. The hard-liners refused to grant any liberties to the masses. George Bush was more concerned with the Contras in Central America than the Kremlin. Americans were geared for another fifty years of Communist rule over Eastern Europe, yet in one night a faceless bureaucrat shrugged off the Iron Curtain draped over East Germany and ordered the Berlin Wall to be open for passage between the two worlds at war.

The domino effect was instantaneous. East Germans flocked to the West in wonder. Poland was liberated by Solidarity. The Balkans fought off the old guard and Russia splintered into pieces.

Communism was dead.

George Bush and the GOP claimed the victory.

Democracy was safe.

But even safer was capitalism and as Slavoj Zizek wrote a brilliant opinion piece in today's New York Times celebrating the end of communism in Eastern Europe while recognizing that the collapse of communism was not complete and neither was the triumph of capitalism a victory for the people of the world.

The richer got rich and then got richer.

Both in the New East and the Old West.

So today I'm wearing an old Moscow Dynamos Hockey shirt.

My keys are on a communist key chain.

And my heart is a little pink, but not hued by the blood of Stalin.

Communism failed, because there never was communism.

Not in Russia and not in China.

And never in the USA.

Not even under Obama.

But the revolution lives on.

No matter what anyone says.

Even me.

May 2, 1978 - Excerpt From Journal

From Mar 6, 2020 reedited today

Am I a poet?
Some people think so
Not many
But most consider poets wastrels without money
Today, tomorrow, yesterday
Throughout time
Poets have suffered
Scorn, hatred, ridicule, apathy, love, and poverty___
Hart Crane wrote THE BRIDGE
A brilliant poem

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Sailors threw him off a ship In the middle of the Caribbean.

Edgard Allen Poe
A msytery death
Last words
"Lord, help my poor soul"

Byron was struck down by fever
Fighting the Ottoman Empire
To Free Greece

Friendship is Love without his wings!
Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure;
men love in haste but they detest at leisure.
The great art of life is sensation,
to feel that we exist, even in pain.

And Joyce Kilmer was slaughtered
Along with millions of his generation
In the trenches of France.

None of them sought these deaths.
Death just happened,
Despite the magic of cadenced words and syllables.
Languages molded far from the public.
Now few people read poetry
And even fewer hear it spoken.
I recite my poems to the walls
Of my small room
In a seedy SRO hotel
My drunken neighbor bangs on the wall.
"Shut up already."

His three words cast a spell.
I go silent.
The only poets making money are singers.
I can't sing,
So I work as a waiter.
As the Rolling Stones sang,
"It's the singer, not the song."

LATER

I played softball with the crew from EST. My position was right field. No one hit in my direction. Ann took over pitching in the fourth frame. I hit a triple in the fifth and our side had a one run lead. She kept them off the bases. In the last inning a young actor from Kansas hit a ball sharply. Ann raised her glove too late. The ball struck her face.

She spun around, as if she had been shot, holding her head. I ran from right field. Her theater friends clustered around Ann. They stood shocked by her pain. I kneeled and held her right hand. Her left hand covered that side of her face, which was red from the impact.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," stammered the young actor."

"It's not your fault," answered Ann and the studio director, Kurt Dempster, asked, "Do you want to go to a hospital. Maybe your nose is broken."

That was the last thing any actress wants to hear and I said, "It looks fine to me, Ann. Breathe deeply."

After a minute Ann stood up. "I'm okay."

She sat out the final outs and I sat by her side.

After the game we went downtown to my place. My drunk neighbor was playing on his sax. I asked Ann if it bothered her.

"No, I like Coltrane. Will I have a black eye?"

"No, but if you do, it will be cute."

LATER

Why am I content with poverty?

I haven't had a ten-spot in my pocket for days. My Irish grandfather and namesake would leave the house with less than $500 and that was in the 40s. I wish I was the same, instead I'm a pseudo-intellectual beggar.

After our fight about Anthony accusing me of stealing money, she said to him, "Peter wouldn't steal. If he wanted money, he'd get it from me."

I do love her.

In the meanwhile I'm waiting for my tax return check. I'm getting thinner and thinner. Marc Stevens asked if I wanted to deal cocaine. I said no. I tried dealing in Boston and only ended up deeper in debt. Right now I owe everyone money. I see no solution other than work. I tried to get a taxi job. I needed $75 to get the licenses. Nothing is free.

Ann is in love me with, but fears dependency on me. She'll probably leave for her own good. I wish I could do the same. Sadly I'm stuck with me.

Summer is getting closer.

Last year in Brooklyn was a disaster.

This summer is looking to be a repeat.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

That's the best poem I've written this year.

A Walk On A Bridge

From 6/27/2020

On a gray November morning in 2016 I woke up in my Fort Greene atelier and looked out my window. Condos along Fulton Avenue blocked my view to the west. Thailand and my family lay on the other side of the world.

I hadn't seen my children for over a year. I missed them more and more with each passing day.

Especially little Fenway.

And Angie.

They were growing up without me.

The hurt wouldn't go away. An inner voice spoke a dangerous language. It only had one word.

Jump.

The phone rang.

I answered hoping it might be a job lead.

Instead it was Shannon, my old basketball friend. We hadn't played in a long time.

"You want to join me for a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. We can have lunch in Chinatown."

"I don't know." I hadn’t left my room in three days.

"My treat."

Shannon knew my weakness for a free meal and agreed to meet at the Masonic Temple on Lafayette Avenue.

"Ten minutes." We lived close to each other. Shannon with his wife. Me all alone.

Seeing a friendly face was a good thing.

"So we're walking across the bridge?" I pointed up. The sky was darker than before.

"You scared of a little rain?"

"No." We were both dressed for the weather, although I was wearing sandals instead of boots.

"Then let's go."

"How's work?"

"I don't have any work." I had been laid off from the Plaza store. "No one's buying jewelry."

"Any idea why?"

"My old profession is dying in the new century, but enough talk of business, let's walk."

The Brooklyn Bridge was thirty minutes from Fort Greene. Shannon and I spoke of the past.

Basketball games, fights, and long-gone loves, then he broached a forbidden subject.

"When are you going to Thailand?"

"No time soon." I was living on food stamps and all my money went to my family. I was lucky to spend $40 a day. "I don't know when I'll get there."

"One day you will."

He knew how much I loved my kids.

Shannon had suggested the name 'Fenway' for my son. I had checked online for Fenway Smith. Surprisingly I found none.

"You know I was walking down Lafayette the other day and ran into a guy with a dog wearing a Red Sox hat. I asked him his dog's name. He said, "Fenway." Now I realized why people don't call their kids 'Fenway'. They call their dogs 'Fenway'.

"Sorry." Shannon was a Yankee fan, but a good friend and I said, "I still like the name."

We had reached the pedestrian pathway and climbed onto the bridge. I wished I had worn shoes, but my feets were comfortable in the flip-flops.

Hart Crane by Dakota Pollock

Published Mar 6, 2020

HART CRANE

Harold Bloom is dead
I don’t have to worry
About his academic attacks
On others with
That sniveling, self assured
Intellect
His smug, all knowing,
pretentious smirk
Like the sailors
Who threw Hart Crane
From a ship
After he made a pass
At probably all of them
And they threw him
Into the Atlantic Ocean
And then wiped their hands
Hands before
Having a drink together
In the ship's bar
Because there used to be
Bars even in Air Force bases
They said it was suicide
Crane's lonely bones
On the bottom of the ocean floor
The man who wrote

‘Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No - It is not fright...
But hold me... Somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.’

Alone on the ocean floor
With only his boots remaining
How poetic.
Bloom and I
Both loved Crane
Even though
Neither of us,
Despite what Bloom claimed,
Understood what Crane
Was trying to say,
But when I saw that bloom
Had died while
Reading his Wikipedia
Article
I said, well, no more
Unwanted hands
Gripping undergraduate thighs
And lectures on how to improve
Grades. vBloom is gone
Dead
Remembered in over 40
Different languages
(Who reads literary critique anyways?)
I can’t think of
Any lines of romanticism
To commemorate him Because I’m just relieved
Knowing that I’ll never have to
Worry about his immediate
Dismissal of my work
And the laughing of
Academics
as they throw
The non-Hart Crane’s stuff
In the trash.