“Fake Taxi” Driver Joins Uber
Veuve Clicquot to Offer Coffee-Flavored “VooV!” for Millennials
American Man in London Soils Himself, Looking for Lou
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”…
disgusting filth animal
violates me … My space, my face
as he coughs
As I walk past, see
him suck his lungs in, throw his
head back, rancidly exhale …
Feel the sick and hear the
COVER. YOUR. MOUTH.
by Jeff Glovsky
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
You can have tone and technique and a lot of other things but without originality, you ain’t really nowhere.
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!
Ornette Coleman 1930 - 2015
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 …
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 …