by Jeff Glovsky, Poetry, Writing

Through, Me!

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A

disgusting filth animal

violates me … My space, my face

as he coughs

into it.


As I walk past, see

him suck his lungs in, throw his

head back, rancidly exhale …

Feel the sick and hear the

wetness gurgle

deep and

through

me.

COVER. YOUR. MOUTH.

a public service announcement

by Jeff Glovsky

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by Jeff Glovsky, Poetry, Writing

Long, Forgetting

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I walk with a bittersweet taste
down these streets, too aware
now I’ll never be home again

Can you hear me?

Furious ghost of my youth!
Angry spirit assails me,
screaming in torment!

Through agonizing streets,
down years, I’ve tasted love
and toppled fears, yet lost you
… things I held most dear

Oh, hear you!

Hear me screaming…

by Jeff Glovsky
more Random Poetix
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by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Jazz Azz a Metaphor

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You can have tone and technique and a lot of other things but without originality, you ain’t really nowhere.

– Lester Young


Ornette was “out”.  He was different.  He ‘couldn’t play’, yet “rewrote the language of jazz” (no small feat in a musical landscape of perpetual innovation (once), and the ethereal dissipation of improvised note bursts nightly, on a ‘moment’s notice’).

* * *

I myself am no musician.  I don’t capably play any instruments … and I’m no authority.  But I do know well and appreciate jazz:  its humor, its sense of chaos, its combustible spontaneity … and above all, its take it or leave it, ‘is what it is’ ethos, too often exploited because, Hey! It’s Jazz!

a (Blue) Noted Passing
Ornette Coleman
1930 - 2015

“L’Esprit de Jazz”, ©Jeff Glovsky

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by Jeff Glovsky, Photography, Writing

Scene You

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Raw Image Ports

Photo(s) by JGlo

Characters

People watching

(e)motion poetry … Wherever you are, you are being seen … Your movements, actions, are recorded … Chased and captured, space and time … You move freely …

but you’re mine

Disposable City

All over the city, bodies litter the streets…

Concurrent with Manhattan’s competitive hotel explosion, has been a disturbing rise in the displaced and the truly unhomed. There are fakers and young people out there too, who are wholly equipped – yet just sitting there, begging …

actual need

Dirty Night Work

Lo-fi night images

all taken with a Blackberry 9900 Bold. Flash, No Flash …

Night 101

AVglov Images – EUROPA 1

Non-political travel images celebrating fading “quaintness” and timeless architecture … evoking both quintessential “Europe” and the everyday continent.  My own

… small stories

Soul New York

“New York” as I see it: reality, memory, mind’s eye,

P.O.V.

Reflections, Self

Reflections and Windows Soul …

and Self(ie)

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by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

When Blogs Collide . . .

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Writing on Blogspot
. . . on WordPress

(and vice versa!)


If you’ve searched me by name, Jeff Glovsky, chances are you’ve wound up here.  Welcome.

What’s in a Name?

In learning the craft of writing, and of becoming (more or less) myself, I seem to have tuned into a few of the biggies … certain manna, and ticks and inflections of theirs, picked up by my young and thirsty antennae, all bursting with needing to take it all in.

Gifts and Ripoffs

… flying in the face of his own misguided logic that in some small way, an exit by overdose might be a good thing — its transmitted “message” perhaps being taken to heart, as opposed to being ignored or simply not received at all by other nodding junkies suddenly waking up, saying, “You know what?  Philip Seymour Hoffman died.  Let me quit.” —

Sadly, it’s unlikely that this became the case anywhere.  Philip Seymour Hoffman just died.

Olympic Darkness

Once I was sitting outside a jazz club where I used to mix sound.  It was a beautiful spring night, and I stepped out of what was, at that time, the stereotypical smoke-filled room to gulp in some fresh air.  It was during a bass solo … These always tended to go on forever anyway, so I figured I had a few minutes, at least, before the singer would come in again and start gesticulating (wildly) toward her ear, suggesting (none too subtly) that she wasn’t able to hear herself …

Cold, War and Otherwise

Elliot Rodger was a sick, pained soul. Stereotypically “tortured”, almost “poetic”, in his musings. His dark manifesto, had it been written, say, a century and a half ago … penned anonymously, and/or “discovered” … who knows? Might have become a literary classic, in the Dostoevsky or Knut Hamsun vein.

As a writer, I myself am tortured: panged with jealousy, twisted, unnerved, by the guy’s naive, sadly wasted talent!

America’s Psycho

When my dad turned 50 years old, he did a little ‘river dance‘ on his birthday cake.  Sadly frustrated with life and years behind him to that point, and whatever present hassles he felt his family, (empty) wallet and failing business had been giving him, in a single swooping motion, he swatted his 50th birthday cake off the kitchen counter, and leapt upon it like Nureyev.

Remember(ing) Laughter

Last May, in the wake of the Donald Sterling nonsense, I commented — rather vehemently — about the old fella’s ‘mistreatment’ at the hands of certain “hating and seething” “thought police” … “angry, directionless ministers beseeching … already converted choirs” that Sterling was worse than just a crusty curmudgeon, left up to his neck in societal sea change.

I empathized with Donald Sterling …

Two Nations, Under God?

Jeff Glovsky (Words by)
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by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

New (Dis)Contents

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Will you really stare, my love?


Coffee Sounds

Underground… feeling heat in the furious subway.  Flipping through a candy rack and trying not to deal.  I buy a pack of gum and turn to see what kind of juice there is.

read more

I steal her soul, but it’s not exploitation.


Safe Already

They climb aboard at 49th Street.  “Moe” and his two stooge companions, rocking the train with loud, garrulous poses…

read more

In 2003, Le Spleen de Paris became the bowels of New York and northern New Jersey … and Slice / Life (annoyances, episodes) was scrawled.

Slice / Life

by Jeff Glovsky
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(Unfinished) Business, by Jeff Glovsky, Works in Progress, Writing

The Good People of 23rd Street

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* * *

Four A.M.

Fellatial solace … Gloved in blowjob hands of peace.  My streets are live, they pulse in code!  With secret winks and messages which say they’re only dozing … ’cause Manhattan never sleeps, of course, but rests sometimes like I can’t.


Away downtown, my Christ Times Square!  I’m photographing homeless people … Hungry, pissed-off, out there types and heinous Zero Overpaids (the problems and solutions which extinct each other daily).  And the sex and drugs and nightlife crawling bat-like into slumber, as the morning breeze begins to hum and day begins to blow …


Down further still, Sixth Avenue, the flower shops are singing.  Winking wide and hurling deft, stout orders all about … There’s trucks and vans a-hum and squeaking … racist, pig-thunk news shows splitting wounded, AM air … and garbage trucks and window men, and newspaper delivery vans.


A breakfast cart still further down, a little queue of mendicants:  it pants, and wants its daily bread.  A giant box of rolls is rent, a bag of bagels buttered …


There’s clouded, waking sky for contrast, sunning up these bloodshot souls …

I’m safe and all at home here, wizened friend to their old scene.

(night) notes from CENTRAL PARK

by Jeff Glovsky

more Word(s) in Progress
Compendium: Selections from
Underwear Woman Digs the Sea

contact Jeff Glovsky

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