In NEW YORK, before loud hordes pollute each day, and in MUNICH, before tourists take dumps on the canvas — and in any place I find myself with a café or diner open early enough — I avail myself of public solitude.
Some words on ‘mornings’… by Jeff Glovsky
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Not to be confused with
a short Story by Jglo
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’).
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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!
Ornette Coleman
1930 - 2015
“L’Esprit de Jazz”, ©Jeff Glovsky
Writing on Blogspot
(and vice versa!)
If you’ve searched me by name, Jeff Glovsky, chances are you’ve wound up here. Welcome.
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.
… 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.
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 …
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!
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.
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 …
Jeff Glovsky (Words by)
They lean in … They’re too close to each other. Yet not close enough. There’s something off.
In pretty red, dressed like a Valentine’s Day, she’s all smiles, commanding attention and swaying … He leans in and keens, like a friendship example, and jokes that he’s handsome while screaming a little …
The volume of the music increases, in tune with his voice and the swaying of her body in the Valentine’s dress. And the wine flows, red, white and nobody’s blue.
From the snowstorm steps an embarrassed Yeti; getting warm as he stamps off his feet, and beard … underneath which he’s red-faced, alone on this day.
No one cares, though! Least of all, all of the others: the Valentine’s dress and the keening example, and me, alone also, enjoying this day …
from Slice / Life (annoyances, episodes) by Jeff Glovsky
The shouts continue.
“Extra caramel macchiato!”. “Grande, triple latte chai!”. “A ‘skinny’ decaf Frap, light ice!”.
“…three ‘pumps’, with extra ‘room’ please?”
And nobody’s embarrassed!
All these selfish inhalations, spoiled preferences, demands. How do they purge themselves? Expel such waste?
The stupid, herd-like slobs! All waiting docilely in line for “coffee”…filling up the popcorn store (…a ‘popcorn store’!), the yogurt shops…
Thank God I date alone.
ripped from ...
Taste her squirming, nighttime, on that park bench, midtown Broadway. Like her spice sweet happy smile, bright young laughing, birdlike eyes and hair all wild, like a porno morning after, or a teenager.
She’s 21.
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Apple ripe and bursting wide tight seams, once secret places…and I’ve tasted. Like the greatest hearts and tongues of her g-generation…
I’m The Who. She’s heard of Paul McCartney once, or maybe…She’s a baby!
My grey nose hairs twitch.
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Like two ships crashing down round the tip of an iceberg; meeting by chance in a hot summer rain, neither having umbrellas…Sharing some pain, laughter, loneliness…Nuns at a conjugal supper.
…Not sure what that means …
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Palm stretched over, purple leotard, and hair, blue-black and wine-drunk like the lips we bit and sucked on…Legs up, back against that fenced off lot near Soutine’s, off Columbus; legs a ripe mélange of ass and ocean…Panties in my teeth and spitting hair from out my nostrils.
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In Buchs, in Switzerland, repeat the scene, but this time it’s a phone booth. We play Superman, and spin around and turn each other out…The Alpines ring us like disease; emasculate our selflessness, elaborate our flaws…
It’s cold here.
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New York, you come again…We come. And meet again, and then…we shudder, coughing, roaring at the small joke of the world.
ripped from ...
When my dad turned 50 years old, he did a little ‘river dance‘ on his birthday cake.
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Stamping like a person one-tenth his age in the frosting, and crushing “5” and “0” candles beneath his still shoe-clad feet, he ceased misbehaving only when my mom burst, literally, Lucille Ball-like into tears.
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My friend Mike and I had been arguing that day over which of us was going to be Hawkeye Pierce … and more importantly, which one of us was going to go downstairs and eat birthday cake wearing the dirty bathrobe my brother and I had laying around the floor of our bedroom?
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Just then, my brother (Major Winchester) burst in. “Dad smashed his birthday cake on the floor!”
I didn’t hear what he said at first — flailing, in a headlock, as I was — but eventually, as the words sank in — and as my best friend Mike released his grip — I realized that neither of us would be needing the bathrobe …
There wasn’t any birthday cake to be eaten!
Pieces of 'H' / 'R' You ... ? Members Lounge: some Random Poetix by Jeff Glovsky
I have nothing but respect for Monica Lewinsky.
In 2010, my name and reputation were destroyed … maliciously, I’ll maintain. Needlessly. Prematurely. Criminally.
“Jeff Glovsky” Sucks
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(W)hatever I can do from my small, sad platform here … my blogosphere soapbox … I will do, tirelessly, to encourage others to think: before bullying and becoming irrational.
THINK. Before destroying potential.
THINK. Before publicly branding, defaming.
Think.
Before anyone else gets hurt.
My Greatest Hits
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I have lost. Copiously, tangibly: employment. Opportunities. Income and earning power. I exist as I can, in a world of estrangement: from friends. Family. Marriage. Potential relationships. Normal, everyday whole life functioning …
I haven’t googled myself in years!
The Name Jeff Glovsky
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When my name and reputation were destroyed in 2010, piece by piece my…existence also fell apart.
Identity Crisis
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You don’t announce “crime”, “scam” and “fraud” when there are none. You don’t put two and two together to get five. It’s not “Freedom of Speech” and no, you don’t have any “rights”: to attack or defame, and destroy my name and associated livelihood(s) any more than they have already been attacked and destroyed.
AFTERMATH: “Crime”, “Fraud” … Delusion
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You’re WRONG if you believe everything you read. At best, you’re getting only half the story and at worst, you’re party to DESTRUCTION caused and the DAMAGES inflicted…
Beware! Jeff Glovsky
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Patently false and 100% Defamatory.
Here’s a FACT: There is No “Scam”
Jeff Glovsky INK: More Unfinished Business
… what you say, about Jeff Glovsky
Jeff Glovsky INK 
