Block Poet

Unlike the beat poets, I'm a block poet. Meaning My words don't come out in graceful shifts. It's been awhile since I have even attempted, but I am determined to get my ass down to the Nuyorican Poets Cafe eventually. Even if it's only for myself and by myself. So lets dust off the old thought process.

I think this poem is a comparison (not my best) of learning to love the city and learning a lot about the culture of its inhabitants. Especially a particular Puerto Rican family whom I really love. It's also a smidge about my struggle to accept myself in a community so steeped with culture and also being afraid of rejection. New Yorkers take their heritage much more seriously then many of the outer laying suburbs and it has been an eye opening experience to live here. One that I think will benefit me for a lifetime.

.......................

Heavy you laid on me
the air was thick
but only from your smoke
but I took you in anyway
Your bark's always been bigger than your bite.
stray as you were

Imposing you were on me
rooted deep with culture
I still don't know my name
but all the world has seen you

Often I don't see the daylight
you keep me in the dark
I've tried to go about
but I take the bumps personally

I laugh anyway
because what you say
is all a joke
my skins a joke
my life's a joke
my jobs a joke
and its OK for you to say

and still I bury my head deep in my pillow
and crawl in with you in the night
heavy you lay upon me
so I squint my eyes
making the focus blurry

I try not to take the pokes personally
but if I speak back
what happens to me
you are so imposing
I know only you to be
one whose bark is bigger than their bite
so I bury my head at night
and you kiss my eyelids

music pours out from you
you don't always hear it
rhythm is in everything you do
you breath and move
the beat is timed
every moment new

culture is so ingrained in you
I still don't know my name
you would rather be called anything than what you are
so I call you muneco
in my sleep
it's safer to say it where no one can hear me.

your so imposing
the air is always thick
from your smoke
I took you in anyway
stray as you were.

Joke topics?

Being raised by your grandparents had its perks and its shortcomings

you would get the piece of cake after dinner, go ahead you know how your grandma likes to spoil you.

-but then I was told two bites in, where the hell do you think you are? This aint grand ma mas house you take one more bite of that cake and I swear your legs are gonna hurt cause you are gonna be biking to school every day.

Yep she was out of her mind

I was paraded around like a grand daughter should be but grandma took it to the extreme...


-didn't she know that rag curls were considered child abuse? (brief explain of rag curls?)
I'm pretty sure child welfare doesn't agree with havin a child sleep on wet bricks.

No she didn't know, "this is what proper little girls wear, don't want people thinkin you look like a slut. jesus what kids wear today."

Instead I looked like a freakin alien when kids wanted to sleep over my house.

I'm kinda damaged now
I try and hide it from the guy I am seeing.

I don't know weather I should put on an apron and bake cookies after sex or ask if this means we are going "steady" now. I have to constantly remind myself that tidying up a mans apartment is NOT a good idea if you want to stay longer than a day. Oh and bringing over a pot roast on the first date complete with a jello mold, also not on the top ten sexiest things to do.

It's hard to act like a normal twenty something when you were raised by the Italian mafia version of the cleavers.

seriously
my father was worse then my mother

I came home crying one day after school and my father asked me what was wrong

I said dad the kids are teasing me because they say I speak funny.
what da ya mean dey say you speak funny?

at this point me and my fathers relationship was still non existent.

well mom always tells me that " I must always mind my manners, and say my please and thank you's and always be a gracious lady."

" you want I should get my brass knuckles?"

By this point my mother would chime in . " John dear, I don't think that that would be a very wise idea. You might give the teachers a fright!"

who the fuck said "fright" in the 80's?

and I'm pretty damn sure no one was behaving like a "lady"

my mom was trying to reinvent the fifties with one little girl... as you can see it didn't really go as planned.


....................

Ok so not entirely terrible for my first attempts at making my life funny.
....................

New York, You're not a Comedian

"Hun it's not two twenty in the morning it's two twenty in the afternoon, you can't just do a U-turn in the middle of the street."

"I know- whats with all these awake people?"

Why is it that Tuesday night is the worst night to find parking? And every day at 3pm when you would think because of the massive amount of traffic riding around on the roads and picking up bratty kids from school that parking would be no problem but it is always the worst time to look.

Every Night I picked him up from the club this week. Tired and drowsy it was like playing a sad video game trying to find parking and nobody was receiving any points. Fire Hydrant....driveway, Fire Zone, Loading Dock, Fire Hydrant,driveway, driveway, driveway.... "Oooo Oooo!! a spot!" " No babe... it says... No parking 7am -4pm school days."

"what the hell there is no SCHOOL around here!"

"um babe, that little hole in the wall is actually a Jewish daycare if you note the Hebrew writing that clearly indicates "daycare."

"you can read Hebrew?"

"no... even though I look like a Latin Jew I can not read Hebrew, however I can interpret pictures, and the baby blocks next to the Hebrew writing clearly define that this is a place for young ones."
.......................................

I didn't even really want to move to the city. It kind of just happened. I wasn't one of those people that NEEDED to be in the city because ugh anywhere else would just be unheard of. No I somehow got pulled into the force like a mind melding trap and here I am. Thank the lord for my car. Though on nights when I drive around aimlessly for hours looking for parking only to play the not so fun kind of bumper cars that's when I tend to hate the vehicle which gives me freedom. People that were born here and have lived here all their life don't understand this kind of freedom. Public transportation suits them just fine and they are fine also with paying ridiculous fees for some guy in a yellow cab to drive them four blocks. So lately I have been using the car more.. I can't help it, I can't escape my suburban roots. I just can't adjust to this new fangled "citidiot" mentality. I still behave like a frantic Long Islander who only has one day to get to the mall this week because if she doesn't she will miss the sale. I forget that every day in Manhattan is like a sale with no sales tax and that it's kind of hard to miss a gap, or banana republic or a Victoria's Secret. There's one like every couple blocks. You don't have to fight rush hour traffic to get there.

But driving has allowed me to fall in love with the city. The after-hours city mostly. The one where I can roam its empty streets and view its sparkling lights without horn honking and massive fits of anger. I even pay the 4.50 toll at the battery tunnel late at night when I could easily take the Brooklyn bridge for free. I think The guy who works the toll is beginning to recognize me. Every night he has some R&b or Rap song blasting. I'm seriously considering bringing him a cup of coffee one night because that job must suck. Where are the bathrooms? No breaks? Eh I suppose its alright still. Not a whole lot to worry about.

.............................

I listened to XM radio tonight to the comedy stations. I think I almost peed listening to Brian Regan talk about his emergency room visit. He had a ten minute bit going which I know from being around enough comedians isn't an easy task to compile a ten minute bit and keep the audience rolling. I myself only know what they tell me about comedy. They meaning most of the comedians still struggling to get a leg up. Some of them have on occasion gotten a leg up and now they are just waiting to get both legs up and in. In the meantime they work on their acts in the New York Clubs. I would love to work on my act but I have no act. If I did ... it would be too rude to bring around my man, cause I think worse then he does.

We would probably compete for material seeing as how we would both be using the same experiences to go from.

Still its something to think about. I'd like to try it and see what happens, I'm afraid I'd hit a bottle or two heavily after the ordeal though, and I'm not talking beer, no probably a bottle or two of tequila.

Lately I'm finding city life quirky. Possibly that's why so many sitcoms are based here. There is hilarity in the streets. It's just not normal. People can make a living any way they seem fit. Want to juggle while doing the two step and selling flowers? OK! Want to sing in the park while panting pictures of a passerby?OK! Want to be a stripper? Sure. Want to sell weed? No problem. Want to be a musician? You can try. Want to tell jokes? Go right ahead. I'm seriously thinking of making toilet paper sculptures and trying to sell them in Bryant Park next Christmas. Add a little paint and a little "frosting" ( bling) and I might have something.

In the meantime I'm just hoping there is parking when I try and return to Brooklyn tomorrow evening. It is the sabbath and in my neighborhood that means the cars don't move. Even if your not Jewish and you move your car its like you disturbed the peace. Sure in October they can bang away for hours building their sukkahs but move a car on sabbath, carry a bag... the world is surely to explode. I guess this makes me a renegade... it's not often you get to feel like a without ever having broke any real laws. This is the most exciting part of my week. I better look forward to it.

Johnny Rebel Gives Advice

This here's my folks. My mother is always squinting in photos but even if she isn't exactly looking her best you could just tell by the way my father is looking at her that she is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. I don't know how long they've been together in this picture. Johnny boy was her second marriage and she already came equipped with three girls, Donna, Janice and Linda...there was no need to start a family really. Just soak in what they had found in each other.

I can actually see my fathers lips! I've never seen them, in all my life I have never seen him without a beard. He looks like a charmer, kind of rough around the edges but real sweet underneath. It took me most of my life to understand that myself. When he use to roll in the door after a fourteen hour day at work all I saw was the rough edges and I forgot about the dad that use to give me piggy back rides.

Over the summer when I had first met Francisco (my guy) I actually for the first time in my life asked my father for love advice. I was crazy about Cisko...head over heels, but the waters were rocky. My dad put it this way, "one should not shit where one eats and you my daughter have committed this sin." Dating your boss is not recommended and by his rule of thumb doing anything to compromise what put food on your table was surely frowned upon.Francisco was more than a little bit rough around the edges. He was almost as grumpy as my seventy one year old father and just about matched in smoking and drinking habits too. I guess it's true what they say, you go for the ones that remind you of dad. So really could you blame me? Away from home and experiencing new things every day Francisco's gruff demeanor and late night stories over a shot of whiskey and a beer made the big apple feel more like home.


I asked my dad "did you ever meet anyone while you were still with someone else and just couldn't help yourself? I mean, every time you were near that person you weren't close enough?"

"yeah" my dad said gruff as if the alcohol from the shot of whiskey he just had actually stung as it went down; he lit up a smoke, " your motha."

"what do you mean?" I said.

"yeah that's right. You're motha and me. She was married to anudda guy, real louse, angry drunk. I was separated but the papers hadn't come through yet."

"How did you meet her dad?"

"She was a waitress at this little place. My friends bet me a pack a luckies that I couldn't get her in bed with me. Your motha was a real bombshell."

"So what happened?"

"Eh we chased each other like rabbits. Probably a lot like you and this franciskie are doin now."

"You know what they say baby doll?"

"No what do they say dad?"

"Theres an old Italian saying," he mumbles something that sounds Italian under his breath and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand as most old Italian men do for emphasis..."I forget how it goes, but it's something like a man will promise to give you the moon and the stars just to get in your pants. So you be careful with this guy."

"Is that what you did Dad, with mom?"

"more or less," he says with a devilish grin and a twinkle in his blue eyes.

"I'm guessing it worked whatever you did. If all you wanted to do was sleep with her and move along, how'd you get stuck?"

" I fell in love with her, that's how. Once me and your mother got together and did the deed, we never got out of bed. For months we did nothing else, we couldn't keep our hands off of one another."

"I suppose this miraculous event doesn't happen too often for the wandering man."

"not likely little one, so you be careful."

I sat with my arms forward, slouched with my face planted in my crossed arms my head down on the kitchen table cocked sideways to watch my dad. Now that I wasn't living at home anymore his stories meant that much more to me. I never realized how much of a story teller he was, having spent time listening to Francisco's stories I realized now more than ever how important my Dad's stories really were. I didn't want to miss a moment of his act. He was the performer, I was the audience and you never wanted to take your eyes off of him for fear of missing what might come next.

That's how I felt about Francisco. I also felt that my dad was right... though it looked like a fairy tale, and felt like a fairy tale, I was likely being sold a paper moon and plastic stars.

It was still nice to daydream a happy ending though. A meeting and romance that might be as interesting as my fathers tale as he told it to me, a story in which even I can't recreate it exactly as my father did the night we finally talked about something other than postal trucks.

I went back to the club the following evening and fell right back into the dance. First he told me how the scenario would go. Not overly romantic but that we would spend our first night together when we could in the Comfort Inn down the block. I took each moment like I was turning another page in a book. Like I was reliving when they had met. I set aside that the reality of the situation was that this was a man, my boss, who had another woman, his girlfriend and that he was talking of how he wanted me and where he wanted me and when it would be. The paper moon looked apparent but I clenched my teeth and played along. I thought of singers like Ella Fitzgerald who sang of love affairs that never went anywhere but oh the memories and how satisfying they were. I thought to myself if it's just going to be a love affair than I should really enjoy it and I whispered into his ear, " I can't wait that long."

I should have known in time how it would play out. The many nights that would follow where he would try and talk me out of being with him. Maybe he just needed to feel free. I'm not really sure but many nights he played barkeep... keeping the bar between us and the alcohol flowing freely. He would stay all night with his eyebrows creased telling me what I didn't know, telling me why I should stay away. Telling me that if I was smart I wouldn't get involved with the likes of him. It was so cliche I wanted to scream. Some nights I did. Some nights I was so sick of his act the one he put on offstage for all the help. The waitresses and the bartenders all gathering around to listen to the big little man speak. To listen to his stories. All the while playing a game they didn't see, flirting just enough to get under my skin, ignoring me just enough to make my skin crawl and pulling the boss card often enough to let me know no matter what he still held all the cards.

I talked too, but not in the open, not with an audience. I talked him into dark corners and into bottles of alcohol. I told him I could see through him and that I liked him better liqueured up because he was more genuine when his inhibitions fell away. He told me he could see through me too and that I fall in love too easily. That stopped me dead in my tracks and I placed all my bets that I wasn't gonna let him win whatever prize piece he was looking for out of me. I pushed up the heat and talked him farther into submission. I walked and he... he eventually followed.

He had the afternoon off. I thought maybe we would meet for the first time, outside of the club. Turned out he just wanted to list more reasons for why we weren't good for one another.
We came to the old Irish Bar between 8th and 9th that he liked so much. A place where late at night he could sit at the end of the bar and know there would be a shot and a beer waiting and where he could read a book in peace or write in his journal. He liked to sit at the end of the bar with eyes on both mirrors to keep a look out on the doors in case anyone came in looking for trouble. It was mid afternoon though when I met him and the sun was stretching in to the pub and illuminated the dust that was collecting on books stacked up on the shelves. A table separated us and we sat in silence for a bit just sipping our beers. I remember being a bit cocky, he had asked me how I was doing and what was new. Two chums out for a bit of tea I thought, this was hysterical, funnier than the jokes he told. "fine and you? Any new leaks we should be worried about, how do you think the weathers doing?" After a bit of meaningless chatter he laughed a little. His face got serious but concerned. "I don't want to make your life complicated, " he said to me. This was only the millionth time I had heard him say this. I sat there still thinking of what exactly he meant by this, how does it get more complicated than the situation we were in?

Life Is a Highway

Ocean parkway or the Prospect expressway is both beautiful and deadly
Just a look on the website Gothamist on their Newsmap section tells you that
at least once every couple days there is something to report about the strip.

It is lined with beautiful trees and a pretty sidewalk marked with benches. Some of the most beautiful houses are situated right in front of the chaos. If it wasn't for a matter of time I wouldn't even consider riding a bike near it, on it, over it. There are only so many hours of daylight in the winter time though and I tend to crave at least a few hours even if I am mostly a night owl. So in hopes to make my dog walking excursions go just a smidgen faster I decided to try my hand at riding a bike through the city streets.

A borrowed bike mind you, one that is rusty, rickety and whose brakes are less then reliable.

I picked up this dog walking routine for a friend of a friend. She is going to Israel for the month and wanted someone to take over the dog walking duties. Having been recently laid off from waitressing at Rockefeller Center for the Christmas season I thought I few extra bucks is not going to hurt while I am in limbo before my student loans come through.

I hate even walking close to Ocean Parkway. If you stand too close to the curb suddenly images of a car flying out of control and careening into the sidewalk with you dead beneath it come to mind.

The trip wasn't too terrible, I didn't die. A few frights but like the little engine that could I peddled the rusty red bike as hard as I could just focusing on where I needed to go.

It beat driving and trying to find parking in which case tag on another hour of parking space woes.

I made it back to the apartment in two hours. That's an hour of dog walking time and an hour of travel time. I suppose that's not too terrible for the minimal amount I am taking home.

I made it all the way back home with no mishaps and not one bump. Until I reached the Yeshiva on the corner. I was pulling up to a light with the other cars when suddenly a car door flies open and my bike handle bars smash into the door. "Jesus!" I scream loudly as the boy says "I'm sorry."" I just rode off in a huff. Later kicking myself that I just screamed "Jesus!" on the corner of my block where most likely these are my neighbors... that I just screamed "Jesus" at.

So much for trying to blend in quietly in a neighborhood where a non-Jewish girl sticks out like a sore thumb anyway.


I have to work on my riding technique. I should probably buy a helmet.

The Bosses Pet

If I could talk to the me who had just moved here I would tell her to not indulge in red wine.
I don't think That would have changed the outcome though.
Red wine or not There was still a North Eastern Last April fifteenth and I would have still pitched in to help mop up the flooded basement of the comedy club in Times Square.
There was so much water that the ceiling was sparkling with moving rivets, the light hitting the water and reflecting off the ceiling. Somehow the jukebox managed to still be plugged in and working and I remember hearing him play again, "damn I wish I was your lover."
I was new here and oh so naive. I hated leaving any later than 12:30 from the club for fear of being on the train with the ill intentioned public. That night I was looking for brownie points. I was looking for an excuse not to go home.
"Go pour us two glasses of red wine" he said to me. I had only ever seen him drink Jack Daniels and Sam Adams, so red wine seemed a little out of character. He liked to celebrate life though, and I was new, I took it as a way of inviting me into the family of the place.

"Salute, A la familia" he raised his glass and we toasted. Vic the porter who did not drink pretended to raise a glass in unison. It was just the three of us for awhile, squeegeeing the floor and moving the water towards the drains. It was well into the night and finally a lot of the water had receded and he sent Vic home. I can't recall what we talked about or if we even talked. At that point I was his right hand had been since I started. Anything he needed or wanted I was one step ahead. One step ahead until the evening took an unexpected turn. Layla came on over the juke and I was standing near the pool table just singing aloud when before I knew it a hand slipped around my waist and his hand slipped into mine. We danced for a few moments as he mouthed the words to me. Something distracted us, he walked towards the office and I followed, he seemed to be looking for something but the buzz was so heavy now that all I could do was still feel the room spinning from dancing. I stood at the bottom of the staircase. He came up right in front of me and asked me a question, vague and blurry, I never really caught it and within seconds the only thing I needed to understand was how perfect his lips felt on mine. Deep, passionate, something I forgot existed in this world. Quick and panicked like this was our only moment in time, the last moment. He brought me towards the office where there was a futon but before he could bring himself inside he stopped and pressed me up against the edge of the lobby desk. He looked at me for a moment with his hands on my face and in my hair and then went back to kissing me, so deep and so long. He hesitated touching me anywhere but my waist, he spun me around as if to bring me into the office but instead turned back around and said "we should get back to work." "yeah," I said and followed him towards the source of where the water was coming from. Music was still playing and he grabbed my hand and pulled me into him, he pushed me back and while kissing me hoisted me front ways onto his hips and pushed me back and down onto the pool table.

I've made it sound like this happened so easily. That I came and He conquered or Vice/Versa. Really though it was nothing like that. He was my boss and I was his right hand. I had no where I wanted to be and the hours were late and the alcohol was free, and the company...made me smile more than I had in months. This was just the first meeting of our lips. I'm reminded of this every time it rains. Oh but how naive I was.

The Red Bench

I've never been one for marveling at anything.
I could count on my hand how many times I visited the city before I moved here.
I never thought a place that looked so gritty and hard could change a person, or that there was anything here worth discovering beyond the museums and the plastic people.

Somehow though I have managed to find myself in Brooklyn of all places.
The things that I've discovered here are larger then the buildings we try to fit everything in, and bigger than the people that think they are too big for this town.
The things you can discover here aren't written about anywhere for anyone to understand.
You would have to live here to know what can be discovered.
Mostly though
you discover a lot about yourself.



I'm staring at a picture of my mother sitting on a red bench at a train station.I can't say if she was coming or going. She isn't even looking at the camera. Shes staring down reading the newspaper and in her lap is a big grey sweater resting on her light washed denim jeans. Her peasant shirt's sleeves are folded up around her elbows and her bright yellow hair is pulled back neatly from her skinny little neck. I wonder where she is exactly and who took the picture of her. She must have still been very young, she looks very focused and clear. As the pictures I have of her progress with time you can see her clear blue eyes crease with uncertainty and sometimes there's a brief hint of panic.

I like to think she was headed back to the city from somewhere. I'd also like to think that whoever took the picture was a lover. Who saw her beautiful and pale and perfect as she was then. I imagine her looking up to realize her Polaroid was being taken and running over to snatch the camera from his hands. They would tease and argue playfully and he would come sit down beside her on the red bench and read over her shoulder. They would finish the crossword, and then the train would roll into the open station to take them to where they were headed.

I like to remember her and see her in ways that I never knew. This picture reminds me that I came from somewhere beautiful.

I don't know what her experience was like here. I just know she came to the city to pursue a dream. I try to imagine where she might have lived. What salon she worked for and what adventures she may have had. The city in the seventies must have been a different world. How soon before she had me was she living here? How did she meet my father? Was it fleet week? Was she out on the town? Back in Long Island in the sleepy little grove of Port Jefferson? I don't have many pictures to try and piece together her life's story but this one is my favorite. Time is standing still in this snapshot. Like she is still sitting there now, where ever it is, reading the paper like not a day has gone by in time.