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

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.

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
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by Jeff Glovsky, Works in Progress, Writing

Developing Characters

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excerpts from ...

CENTRAL PARK

by Jeff Glovsky

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.

* * *
“You framed, man?  Man, you must be FRAMED!

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 ...

DOING BEING

by Jeff Glovsky

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

DOING BEING


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 ...

Developing Character(s)

by Jeff Glovsky

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Book Reviews, by Jeff Glovsky, Writing

Thoughts Escape …

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R e v i e w s

by Jeff Glovsky

Vitruvius

The Ten Books of Architecture

Not only a book about “architecture”, per se, but a fascinating glimpse into the full scope of city planning, function, design, form and construction which comprise human dwelling. As picture perfect a time (and place) capsule as de Tocqueville, Proust, Joyce, Dostoevsky or Kerouac, the fundamental principles and observations of Vitruvius‘ time (and place) apply today – wherever humans of a civilization dwell together.

read more

Paulo Coelho

Aleph

I continue to be confounded by the cult of P.C.  His dumbing down and sound-biting of spiritual beliefs across various cultures — his appropriation of these, and regurgitation of defining tenets into (sound)bite-sized pablum and boring, obvious homilies — grows more and more off-putting with each publication.

read more

Tobias Wolff

This Boy’s Life

Like Arundhati Roy in The God of Small Things, and like Kerouac before them, Tobias Wolff in a way reinvents the language, developing a cadence and certain words and phrasings that become uniquely, identifiably his.  None of the deft flow, though, detracts from the power of this memoir …

read more

Donald Fagen

Eminent Hipsters

Expecting something vaguely Lennon-esque, going in (along the lines of In His Own Write, perhaps) … or alternately (worst-case scenario), some combination of Bob Dylan’s Tarantula and a crap Steely Dan song (and yes, there are those) … I was pleasantly surprised by several more or less straight-ahead nods to the ’eminent hipsters’ in Don’s early domain …

read more
Good Reads (and Meh)!

. . .  s o  f a r .

While admittedly not an “avid” reader, I read a little … plus, I know what sounds right, I’m not tone deaf and I know what’s ‘in key’ (though I’ll never be there!) …

so watch this space ^.

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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.”

read more
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…

read more
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!”

read more
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”

* * *

“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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