I was in town for the big Allen Ginsberg Invocation reading in Central Park, June 12, 1998 at the bandshell. Here's my five day travelogue...
(Thursday)
vagabond
swimming through Manhattan,
the 2 miles by 10 island
much smaller than its hype,
ground large into my american psyche
like the scarecrow and flying monkeys -
who needs a tour guide
when the landmarks pile up under my nose
and over my shoulder:
Madison
Christopher
Empire State
Greenwich
SoHo
Central
West Village
Rockefeller
Ellis
42nd
125th and Lex
World Trade
Statue of
Coney
St. Marks
Harold
Times
Disney Square...
but i notice what's missing -
the characters, the freaks,
the spicy worm in the Big Apple -
freaking Giuliani has defanged and sanitized
Fun City
for my comfort...
like Paris
this town is built for walking,
like Paris
this town doesn't march at triple speed
doesn't push and shove
or Bronx cheer;
unlike Paris,
the locals cast an eye
at the out-of-towner spilling ink -
against a 5th Ave. mailbox,
under the rotating billboards and the Jumbotron,
over a dish of Chicken Lo Mein,
riding the No. 6 train stroking uptown
"who the hell IS that
with a pen instead of a camera,
writing and not gawking?"
no one asks -
it's not how they do things in Midtown.
(Friday)
vagabond
swimming through Manhattan
up to Central Park, to the bandshell,
to the rained out desolation that is the
"Invocation of the Best Minds for Allen Ginsberg."
cancelled?
shiiit...
the world is landing here
rain be damned!
we got Iceland, Luxemburg, Austria, Buenos Aries, Caracas,
Lafayette, Louisiana, Louisville, Kentucky,
Boulder, Aspen, San Francisco, L A,
Boston and Chicago
converging in the concrete half-shell;
we got Rosie, five years gone from San Antone,
playing hooky, sucking down a 40-oz.,
talking about her pre-Rudy city, glorious and gritty.
hell, we even got New Jersey News!
our neat and tidy 'one poem, two minute limit'
becomes a seven hour word feast
global round-robin
improvised scat session
with thunder-puncuated verses
and a break for lunch.
Hey,
Big Al, get down here!
none of your famous brought their faces,
though Bono sends his best
(i still have the pluggers George Plimpton
and Amiri Baraka should've taken).
we pull the big guy down by force of will
and words from Kentucky through a cell phone...
we end on time, as the rain pauses,
scores of poems offered up in unison
to the clouds, the birds,
to Allen,
who didn't want an 'organized' reading after all...
the united poetry nations
land on a venue called Centerfold,
perched over a Catholic/Jewish church/temple,
verse mingling with Fri. service.
Birgitta sings, Taina reads eponymously,
Big Al recounts an early 50s scene -
Billie Holiday, near her end,
singing "My Man is Gone" in the back of his station wagon
(but never on stage, she said);
recounts Miles Davis, confronted in a restroom,
calling the Beat Movement "synthetic white shit"
while Coltrane busts a gut...
we invade an Irish pub
to dish and watch the Bulls falter.
countries slowly peel off into the dry night.
the remaining troupe finds a quiet pizzeria
for the next best thing to steak at midnight
for Esteban from Argentina.
Birgitta keeps glancing at my baby dreds
the way i keep glancing at her perfect mouth
and glittery chest...
last stop, base camp, the Gershwin Hotel,
27th and 5th (uh, south of Murray Hill...north of Gramercy Pk?
ok, ok, Midtown),
21 hours later,
vagabond crashed on a bunk bed,
spent like a salmon whose job is done,
at least until tomorrow.
(Saturday)
vagabond
swimming through Manhattan.
my first souvenir is a $3 umbrella
bought a day late but still in time
for the next deluge...
50 feet over Times Square
Matt LeBlanc's head
competes with Scottie Pippen's legs
Jim Carrey's wide grin
and a chorus line of beautiful people
flashing their Calvins.
on the street,
Mickey Mouse
Live Nude Girls
Nathan's
Blimpie's
and crooked camera shops
vie for my entertainment dollar...
night falls
and there's nothing to go to
(my own poetry calendar fails me).
the NYPress says go to Chelsea,
check out the multicolor action at 2i's -
that's no. 2, letter i, apostrophe, s -
"no sneakers, no baggy jeans, no t-shirts, no baseball caps."
i check myself:
i'm cool, but i'm early, time to stroll along 8th Ave...
the east coast version of Wicker Pk.
is
lezbigaytrans
breeders pushing strollers
scattered homeless
beautiful latina sisters with plump juicy
politically incorrect anatomy,
guys handing out comp cards to gay discos
(didn't offer any to me...).
back to the club, just in time to assume the position -
no weapons, no dope, no problem,
find a seat, a candle, an empty page
and wait for the DJ....
yes, my sweet tall Jamaican sister,
shake it right in my face
as the ink flies and splatters,
drop the pen on the floor and roll with it,
hip hop diving into old school boiling over into soca;
the crowd screams as i - swear 'fore God -
drop on the one
double knees on the floor
up with the beat
and slam it into third (in white pants!)
Jamaican sister's eyes blaze...but they still say no
(shoulda gotten my own room).
the NY subway at 3:15 am is the 'L' at 9pm -
what's the big freaking deal?
back at base camp i keep going;
i need to eat
but the 24-hr city is dark and closed,
only hookers working the graveyard shift...
a vision in white, with bloodspots on her skirt,
heads west down 27th
but i'm going east.
across Madison
a Wonder Woman in white says
go to Park and 28th.
a sweet old thing in black spandex
with good ears
walks up patting her moneymaker
(no thanks - too late in the day for fish).
the cops buzz this tender vignette,
she gives chase, i duck into an open McD's
(not much better than her offer).
get a murder burger and fries
and watch this floor show:
the whores and the hustled,
slum kids, club kids, runaways,
skate punks
at the neon rest stop...
dawn breaks as i show my face -
the coast is clear.
two blonde beauties cross the street with me,
joke about 'snatching me up before calling it a night'
(of course, their ride pulls up).
the clock in the hotel lobby makes me yawn,
Sunday morning wraps its arms around me
and whispers me to sleep.
(Sunday)
vagabond
swimming through rain-soaked dreams,
jolted awake lights blazing
walkie talkies screaming
"security to the fourth floor!"
"we're going to have to ask you to check out."
the fog in my head burns away -
this is the New York i expected and feared,
unreasoning, cold, swift...
wait just a damn minute!
(before it begins, the drama ends -
a slim young thing from Birmingham,
who fought off a cabbie two nights before,
steps into the room, smiles and waves,
"no, it's not him."
...oh...never mind.
uh huh...just kiss my ass and let me get
back to sleep)
vagabond at breakfast, 2pm.
got the 'new york tip' down cold
got the gotham city smiles back...
i walk past the ho-hum tourist traps
looking for a funky bookstore, none in sight.
take the 'F' down to 2nd Ave.,
to Houston (uh, that's 'Houseton') St.
to Loisida.
up the subway steps lies the 'hood -
tourist flipside, gritty cop-show naked city NY -
but only on some streets and corners.
on others,
Selena, Princess Di and Mike Tyson
are larger than tragic life;
down the block, Kiss rules...
this is the land where GG Allin died,
this is my neighborhood after the gangs moved on,
before the wave of pioneers in mini-vans rolled up...
a Wm. Burroughs lookalike (who doesn't play the role)
spills his guts in ABC No Rio
and gives me a nickel tour;
an impromptu scat session
erupts in La Lita Java,
the smallest venue i'd ever seen;
the Nuyorican is shut tight
to poets with afternoon delusions of grandeur.
back near base camp
the sun says hello in Union Pk.
three days tardy,
15th St. ablaze in gold for 20 minutes.
the umbrella's ready to die.
