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oh, this took me back, to a terrible, wonderful time. thank you. On 1/24/08, Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Wonderful Town > > 1 > > It's 6:30, which means things > are getting serious. Not necessarily > a crisis – only a report, prospectus, > due diligence. And that sense, > however familiar and subdued, > of rededication: quick wash, second shave, > swipe of hand sanitizer. The slacks that appear, > turning into the aisle > between the cubicles the next room over, > are a woman's. Is she loyal, will she stay? > … no, she's gone, > down to a block of freezing rain > before her cab or subway. Four > in the window office > remain. A neocon > I knew once became almost tearful, > praising the connotations of the word > *company. The eldest > (I think) has slung his jacket > over a chair. The possible > young hope, young blood, or someone's > idiot nephew gestures – > a repeated downward pump or jab. > Striped shirt never moves. Green tie > shifts once, is still. > No laptops, stenograph, speakerphone, realtime > output, which means this > is serious? or that drinks > and dinner are delayed somewhere > for ideas? Their wall is bare > and white. In these blocks, no > "green" enterprises, NGOs, pro bono; so > one knows, more or less, who they are … Now the Old Man > looks out and down > at the rain puddling the twentieth-floor setback, > then at my hotel, at me, > whom at this distance (mystery is distance) > he can't see. > > 2 > > The espresso machine like a Victorian monument > bronzed, the tables like Braque's *guéridons, > the display case for cannoli, > the notional chairs and between-table spaces, > the walls brown from the smoking ages, > the waiters' trance, and this stretch of MacDougal > don't change with the decades. But today > the place seems given to a private party, > quiet and unannounced. The kid > with his absurd beret and the one-volume > Schopenhauer he doesn't so much read > as carry, the more or less fat > guys with their Marx and journals, > and a few older men > seem at least in one sense together – > they have eyes only for each other > (and for the long-haired girl in a pleated skirt > who doesn't appear). Though no two glances meet. > One probes a pocket for the number > at which he must call his father > from a payphone; another for his cellphone, to call > his wife. The kid perhaps ponders; > the thirty-something and forty-something read; > another stops because the light's too dim. > They take out notebooks and write, > or try to. Is that how they communicate? > They'd deny it … > (Outside, some sort of demonstration passes > without a break, and fades; > no one comes in. There's no one to talk to, ever.) > If they did write each other, > what would they say? "You can't write anything here. > If you do, you'll reject it later > as sentimental." Seeing which, the boy rises, > surreptitiously tucks in his too-tight > turtleneck, fills his bookbag, > and leaves, expression resolute and dreamy > because that's expected of him. > > 3 > > Actually, we don't discuss > the obvious: arthritis drawing > cries from him whenever he canes > himself up, and slightly hobbling > my own step when I cross the room > to fetch some book he has pointed to. > Or loneliness, or politics – the bullies > that roam the body and the world will have > their way, and meanwhile jabber; > we ignore them, though they strain and shape > all speech. He has grown very white > since our last meeting, fifteen years > and hundreds of emails ago, I very gray. > The relics of his lover, who had disliked me > on sight, lie small and quaint > amid the clutter, and a ghost informs > the collages – ties, real ties imposed on penciled – > he's doing. He gives me one. > Reads new poems, *vers-de-société* > of hell and the low slopes of purgatory. > Paws what I bought > at the Strand: Stead's work since his stroke, Matthias > sounding old, old. "Always the tourist," he smiles. > "You're scoping out the terminal wards." > – "I want to see how much they transcend > the personal, and if not, why they can't." – > "Perhaps because there's nothing else," he says, > provoking. – And one or two > young free-associaters, who have no story > but the stupid one the world imposes, > "but at least aren't chuckleheads": > thus I defend them, and bore him. > He rarely leaves the apartment; > is interested when I describe > the cardboard, low-grade porn and verathaned > ads at the New Museum > on the rapidly gentrifying Bowery. "'*Unmonumental' – > that's what they call the show. The wall-text > talks about art 'responsive to an age > of broken icons.' It struck me > there's a contradiction in that." > – "The longer I live, or last," he says, > "the more I address one question > to whatever I see and read: > would anything be lost if this didn't exist? > If the answer is no, burn it." > We have been drinking all this time: > one glass each, slowly. Now he offers > another, but I have to go. > Once more I praise his recent work. > "I was glad to meet you again," he says. > "You seem to be more yourself than I remember." > I tell him teaching helped. And poetry. > "Not an afterthought," he smiles. Stands, painfully; > we embrace as if we'll meet again. > Afternoon sun > pours down the airshaft to his window. > > 4 > > They queue, for rock clubs, movies, > all-you-can-eat restaurants, even > the tchotchke shops, to buy Liberty > in snow-globes, foam, or pre-aged bronze. > The lines intersect the crowds, > so dense and slowed they feel > as in dreams that the illusion of movement > will fail any moment. > Their coats absorb the smudged and trodden > colors, poor relations of those above. > To the east, the shows are letting out – > the fishnet dancers in Cook County jail, > a lion cub becoming king, > a sexless lover with a mask – their music, > in the minds of the new crowds exiting, > merging at the corner with the noise. > The new Stoppard may or may not > have taught that rock-and-roll is freedom; > that one can relax into freedom > if one abandons murderous ideals. > A couple next to us, with strict ideas > of entertainment, squirmed at allusions > to unfamiliar dates and names, > to history, and left at intermission. > There are cabs, but they rage, > like other cars, for movement; > we'll take the E or 6 or walk > crosstown to our hotel – > the cold rejuvenating us, > sustaining another hour > the feeling that friends, drinks, dinner, > window-shopping, the theater can go on. > Call it joy, whose center is above > this corner, all its plasma screens > broadcasting fragments of it: cars, breasts, > the sea, disembodied dancing > handbags, market shares, wise commentators, > an ecstatic Riemannian geometry > of colors, colors, colors one yearns > to rise and merge and splinter into, > all motion effortless and theirs, reflected > in the faces now surrounding us, blasé > or brooding, avid for the possible. > -- ~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com | =^..^=