There is nothing that I’m able to say. That’s what’s sad.
Left unheard. Stay unsaid.
What’s the point?
Walking aimlessly down Broadway,
down past church and funeral pyre,
by Jeff Glovsky
My train each day is a filthy ride.
Harried passengers, captively feigning aplomb, have no choice… The alternative is meltdown.
In the tunnel, wind rumbles, belches, swirls. At the end, finally, light.
My train arrives.
A clock face smiles genially as it marches into sunset.
Racing backwards down the slope of Time, the face stops glowing, cracks appear; it winds itself less regularly… Forgets to sound reminders now and then… Alarming.
Increasingly, out of sync.
Photo(s) by JGlo
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 …
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 …
Lo-fi night images
all taken with a Blackberry 9900 Bold. Flash, No Flash …
AVglov Images – EUROPA 1
Non-political travel images celebrating fading “quaintness” and timeless architecture … evoking both quintessential “Europe” and the everyday continent. My own
“New York” as I see it: reality, memory, mind’s eye,
Reflections and Windows Soul …
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 …
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.
excerpts from ...
Now my social circle, such as it is, resembles a bit a Fellini ensemble: Comprised almost entirely of souls I’ve just met up with, there’s this homeless guy I feed sometimes … El Flaco John and Todd Sin Pelo, two sad sacks I revel in at “work”, this outdoor theater …
There’s bright Crystal, lovely! Eighteen! Topless!! Now, two German stewardesses … from night streets, separate outings – Why, on two diverse young evening jaunts!
Karola met and knot-tied with her Corsican Mann down in Mexico City. She sprekz well, das Spanish … The night we went crazed, after sucking down Fosters (she loves Australian beer, she said, and only sampled French parfum), I caught her peeping my way through a pair of Woodsy lenses.
Drunk when I met her, and heavy with child.
“Hi, I’m Delphine!” Delphine broadcasts. “You are?”
“Sit down, Delphine. Want a beer?”
“I’m Greek!” Delphine shouts, and she plops with a thud on a cat-scratched futon. “My love, I am hungry! Have you any cream cheese?”
There’s a woman on the Upper West Side, loves to dream …
Why, each night, catch her traipsing her mangy hound here, the two of them dressed to the nines, fit to kill!
… And Zorro flicks hair from a flattish sombrero: a dyed blonde, unruly and posthumous mane. Her little pooch cries out as well … the two of them begging, imploring attention.
I yell this to the homeless guy leaping out of the shadows at 78th Street … An empty wooden picture frame is swinging round his neck.
In true form, Ernest cracks with glee. “I dint do it! No,” shouts he.
No, “I was FRAMED!” we both yell.
an excerpt from ...
I’m watching Jungle Cali as she screams in with her vipers. Topless dancers from across the street …
She’s got this kind of jazz patois … Like, everything is straight, you dig? Like everything is solid, Jack! Like Wynton put some major foot up, David Sanborn far from sad.
I watch her now though, every night. She’ll scream in with her vipers when their shifts change, five a.m. … I watch them: Loud, she’ll scream in, claim their throne, commence to holding court, these vipers, caution to the wind!
She’ll flirt there, shout, caress meat thighs and wink at cabbies, me and all who, damaged, limp across her landscape … Jungle Cali laughs, we’ll cry, and die another year each night.
read some more
Wolf, howling nighttime, prowled the Upper West, growling and swearing to himself …
He was generally harmless, howling “Wolf”, and kept to the demons within his head … The last time I saw Wolf, he had aged – albeit gracefully, with a little salt and pepper, George Clooney thing going on (short on the sides) … His posture improved … Occasionally, he’d ask me “How’s the Mrs.?” as he howled.
Then I ducked, as he swung a tree branch at me on Christmas Eve in 2010.
Since then, at the holidays, I think of Wolf …
@Jeff Glovsky on Medium ...
by Jeff Glovsky
original “faction” by Jeff Glovsky
Now smoking in a doorway cross the street, I watch Cristina leave: She stumbles out the door and down the stoop, sways sideways like a crab…Grows sober as she peers around, pretends not even to be looking: calm, she lights a cigarette, and plays she’s taking in the night.
… She looks so damn ridiculous, I can’t announce myself!
* * *
Happy memories flood a little: Pedro with his gimp, and fleshpot offers (“Zhu wan’ womens?”)… There was Voula, on that balcony: thick stockings ripped about high waist and sweating as she blew me (hair like flooding hay cascade), full moon over Kifissias… Greek smiles, and an ancient tongue…
Oh! Pray to be alive still.
* * *
I make it to the edge of Market Street, where people finally glow. I stumble through the neon, down the crusted, naughty pavement; past the porno barns and donut shops, the hookers and all-night transvestites… Old-eyed, gorgeous-bodied, full Brazilians swipe their tongues at me…
* * *
At Cadillac and Venice, I stand waiting for a bus or taxi… Car pulls up, rolls down its window. Upper middle-aged guy with a crew cut leans and says to me, “Hey, what are they? A couple of whores?”
He sits there, waiting for an answer.
* * *
Standing like stone at Prytania and Terpsichore…Wishing they’d won that Civil War.
… In New Orleans, they dance to Koko Taylor. Sit out on their civil porches, naked, flood their war-torn streets… Don’t never go to Bourbon or the Quarter but to sweat.
* * *
I think of vulnerability with Rivka. Also trust, and caring… Rivka seemed to care a lot. While others might flop noisily, then want only to crash (like me)… Warm Rivka’d stay awake, engaged. Sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, like a Thanksgiving prayer… Or splay out like a cat about to side-stroke cross a swimming pool… Or simply lay beside me. But the whole time, with great eyes on mine, like we were meaning something.
* * *
Husbands all wave dumbly from bland stations. Love steams in and out.
Kids twist the scene, and scream, and make us long for infancy ourselves … We go on waving dumbly.
Years, like chestnuts, crash and shrivel pointlessly into the earth. We join them finally, most of us, with never having tasted Carmen Aragon.
I’ll find her …
from Underwear Woman Digs the Sea more Stories by Jglo (Long Reads too & Random Poetix)
by Jeff Glovsky