Book Reviews, by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Let the Baby Name Itself

<< / >>

Twee: The Gentle Revolution in Music, Books, Television, Fashion, and FilmTwee: The Gentle Revolution in Music, Books, Television, Fashion, and Film by Marc Spitz

I’d been confused about this “movement” for some time – The sometimes lazy, often fearful, hyper-emotional misfits demanding the coddling of their helicoptered childhoods to continue well past sell-by dates, into their collective twenties and thirties.

A weird skinny lumberjack beard or two later, these (wo)men-children have been, somewhat insultingly, labeled “Twee”…

Read more

R e v i e w s

by Jeff Glovsky
by Jeff Glovsky, Poetry, Writing

Long, Forgetting

<< / >>

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
by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Jazz Azz a Metaphor

<< / >>

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

by Jeff Glovsky, Photography, Writing

Scene You

<< / >>

Raw Image Ports

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 …

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,


Reflections, Self

Reflections and Windows Soul …

and Self(ie)

by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

When Blogs Collide . . .

<< / >>

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)
by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Pieces of ‘H’

<< / >>
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.

read all of
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.

read all of
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