by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

On the RECORD…

<<>>Jeff Glovsky

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

* * *

Not to be confused with

Mornings

a short Story by Jglo

 

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by Jeff Glovsky, Works in Progress, Writing

‘R’ You … ?

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Ripe Delicious

 by Jeff Glovsky

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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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Ripe, Delicious

 ripped from ...

Round Trip

by Jeff Glovsky

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.

* * *

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. 

* * *

New York, you come again…We come.  And meet again, and then…we shudder, coughing, roaring at the small joke of the world.

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Round Trip

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Remember(ing) Laughter

 by Jeff Glovsky

When my dad turned 50 years old, he did a little ‘river dance‘ on his birthday cake.

* * *

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.

* * *

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?

* * *

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!

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Remember(ing) Laughter

 

Photo of Jglo - Jeff Glovsky laugh


Pieces of 'H' / 'R' You ... ?
Members Lounge: some Random Poetix

by Jeff Glovsky
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by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Pieces of ‘H’

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here's some

Hung Hannah

 by Jeff Glovsky

It’s usually the cutie-pies who get me: The smiling-with-tongues-leaking-out-of-their-teeth ones; the gap-toothed-and-sunny-eyed dollop of heat ones…the sweet ones…the sad-eyed and vulnerable, meek ones…

Though sometimes, a freak ends up having to do.

* * *

Hannah was freakish, to be sure. Knees bent like a horseman, she swayed like a willow…Invited me into her heightened regime: Crook’d finger, then wagging it Mick Jagger-like…and then sshhh-shing it, crushing it up to our lips.

Smell the finger!” I thought I heard her howl.

Hannah didn’t speak like me, though; freakish Hamburg Hannah only let on she spoke German.

* * *

See Hannah: Dancing like a horseman willow…Licking on her hands and fingers, beating on her skirt to stay down.

* * *

Hannah’s left alone now with her heightened, altered dreams. She sits there snarling, like she farted; spilling wine all down herself…I ask this bird, who’s flown, “You cool?”

She snarls at me, incoherent.

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Hung Hannah

 here's some

Hind Forward

by Jeff Glovsky

She tells me she’s Moroccan, and I dig this of her.  French, some, too.  She tells me she was born in France, in fact, it’s “just Moroccan blood”.

A powerful attraction dunes…Like sands whipped up by long millennia of dueling desert shifts, it sifts…

* * *

(O)ur Dutch-bound train rolls into Belgium…sad nether lands…a cemetery.  Brussels comes, and I ask little Hind why she thinks things are so:  “It could’ve been Paris, Brussels…no?  What happened, I wonder.  What didn’t happen?”

Hind pulls a cigarette and shrugs.  “And New York is not Washington.  Or Boston.  Why, do you suppose?”

“New York, it doesn’t need to be!  But I ask you the other way:  How come Brussels, right?  Did not become what Paris did?”

“There’s too much power…”

“Washington and Boston have their own things going on, in any case,” I reason (smartly).  “But Brussels…must be frustrating!”

“Imagine being buried here,” Hind shivers.  “One’s life ends twice!”

* * *

She’s standing on her seat now, Hind…and reaching up behind her, to her bag, up on a luggage rack.  She finds it blindly, smiling at me…Tugs it so she’s got its weight and pulls it off the luggage rack…

Then bites a lower lip as the big bag with her small arm comes crashing down upon an old man’s head.

* * *

She looks down at her watch and does that pouting little French lip thing.

* * *

Our train pulls into Amsterdam.

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Hind Forward

whatever hol(y)days you celebrate, may they be merry

Happy Holidays!

JeffGlovsky November 2014


Pieces of 'H' / 'R' You ... ?
Compendium: collected short "faction" by Jeff Glovsky
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by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

3 Monsters

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by Jeff Glovsky

Monsters

As I was sitting and having breakfast (trying), I’m privy to this overloud conversation:

“And it was just that hair, completely … unkissable! The way she carried herself, and that nose! I mean, the woman is just plug ugly.”

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Dumb Monsters

The Dutch roll out of bed like we do. Stuffy, they’ll throw wide their windows; chilled, then just their curtains, let some light in. In their red bathrobes…

They don’t have any shame, these Dutch! Red bathrobes, or red window dressings…All the same to them. White satin panties and a milk-fed grin…

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I’m Not the Monster

The chair tips and the child howls…Bangs its head on the edge of a table.

“HaHaHaHaHA!”, staccato, high-pitched burst of another one. “That was funny!”

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from Underwear Woman Digs the Sea and
SLICE / LIFE (annoyances, episodes) 

by Jeff Glovsky

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by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Compendium

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 Stories by Jglo

 original “faction” by Jeff Glovsky

"Contact" by Jeff Glovsky, Strawberry Press Magazine

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!

“Contact”

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“In/Eternal”, ©Jeff Glovsky

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.

“Mornings”

* * *

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…

“Bus to Anaheim”

* * *

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.

“Left Coastin’ (Some LA Scenes)”

* * *

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.

“South Rise”

* * *

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.

“The Venezuelan Dairy Case”

* * *

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 …

random SHORTS

from Underwear Woman Digs the Sea
more Stories by Jglo 
(Long Reads too
& Random Poetix)

by Jeff Glovskyby Jeff Glovsky

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