Reading at the Music Inn 19 November 2024

 My grandson Tolo organized and filmed a lovely poetry reading last night in which I was the featured poet. I haven't read my work in public in ages. 

A young audience, mostly, in an historic spot, the venerable Music Inn, in business on West 4th Street in Greenwich Village continuously since 1957! 

 Not only were these my stomping grounds in the 1960s, but we learned from the amazing owner Jeffrey Slatnick that on that very spot, the original Indigenous tribes of the area held their pow-wows and planned their rebellion against the Dutch, right where the Minetta river passed on its way to the Hudson. 

A magical place filled with musical instruments, a wonderful audience of young poets who gave this geezer a very warm reception. Ana and I were

moved and delighted. Ana took this video of me reading a poem I wrote about Rachel

Vacations

 

1. A visit to the shore

 

I’m on the beach, tired from dogpaddling.

It’s time for a little nap.

 

Before dozing off, I think

Thou shalt 

Thou shalt

Feel immense.

 

The rest of you guys can wash up on the beach

And be shells.

The best kind of shells

Whose iridescence lasts forever.

I declare.

 

Milestones cry,

I am no longer a young man.

I am a man.

Dayenu!

 

Memories curl

On my tongue.

Did I ever see a waterspout?

Ten guys marching at the water’s edge, playing tubas?

Whatever became of my sea glass collection?

 

I dunno.

 

2. Ocean Heist, New Jersey

 

We went to the South Shore

To steal the ocean.

We’d planned it for months

And God found it funny.

 

We were spotted by a lifeguard,

Of course.

The cops brought us in for questioning,

Waves lapping in our pockets.

 

I felt like a fool,

Sand in the crack of my ass.

 

Once, I was handed a lever

And told to move the world.

And I did, I budged it a little,

In my own way.

But that was a different caper.

 

Oh Ocean Heist!

Here girls drool

Over my six-pack.

Danny is safe and happy here.

Rachel smells of breastmilk.

 

Here they train porpoises

To be bus drivers for the Short Line.

Here I eat chicken parm in the Hotel Arizona.

Here I plot with Bob to make a million dollars.

 

Asked why I did it,

I just played dumb.

“Basically, I dunno.”

 

I managed to slip away

And hide under the boardwalk,

Which soon was a future boardwalk,

A raft for refugees.

 

It was getting late.

They warned they’d come for us

If the sea wasn’t where it was supposed to be

By sundown.

 

I swear we always intended

To give it back.

 

                        - New York City, 20 August 2024

This poem imprisons tyrants

Kindly note, dear friends,

That the tyrant has finally been imprisoned

In the second line of this poem

Watch him shrinking here

In the second stanza

Listen, he’s weeping

Rivulets of his tears

Of what: rage? remorse? Fear?

Snake their way from his cell

Into this stern, unforgiving stanza

Only to disappear

Down this one’s drain

Put your ear to the next line:

Songs of freedom!

And here the poem thinks

It will end

Clumsy, clueless

Just beginning

- New York, January 21, 2024