Ode to the Chelsea Hotel

One of the sorrier sights I've seen recently while traipsing around is the destruction of yet another venerable landmark of  Old New York -- the Chelsea Hotel, now marked as off limits and undergoing a gut-job renovation; the new landlord trying to evict all the old tenants, those with the most intimate knowledge of the building's mytho-poetic past.

Ode to the Chelsea Hotel

 

Property rights trump

All others in the

Landlord’s view

At least

That’s my takeaway

From the sign

I saw this afternoon

On the front door

Of the Chelsea Hotel

Residents only

No photographs

Allowed

Which I promptly

Defied so I could

Present to you

In contraband fashion

The photograph below

Irrespective of whatever

Penalties may lie in wait

Because this Hotel is

Our common property

From stem to stern

From the room that

Gave birth to sad-eyed 

Ballad of the Lowlands

Or just down the hallway

Where sad eyed Nancy expired

One More Saturday Night

Doesn't it
Always seem
That the price
For too much
Euphoria is paid
In revulsion
Whether by psilocybin
Transported
Or milder means
Between toxicity
And delight
There remains
A steel forged link

For My Classmates Busy Preparing for the 35th Reunion

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It’s exceedingly nice

That having reached

The time in life

When the kids’ tuition

Should be well in hand

And the 401(k)

Fully funded

My college classmates

Never having been modest

In their expectations

Still intend to change

The world and enlarge

The endowment

More so than in

All previous years

Combined

Whereas I find

Myself overcome

By a contrary spirit

Of pessimism tonight

As I sit and watch

The late middle-aged man

At the condiment counter

Stuffing his pockets

With packets of ketchup

Preparatory to going home

To make himself soup

 

Change the world

Much as you like

But in America

It remains certain that

Age like poverty

Will soon enough render

Each of us objects

Of irritation and

Mild ridicule

Towards A More Footloose Practice - II

Here's a revised version of the poem about Richard Musto's daily practice on the streets of Manhattan.

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Towards A More Footloose Practice – II

When Buddhist friends

Speak of this or that

As being part

Of their daily practice

I’m never quite sure

What they mean

But I believe

Richard Musto’s

Daily practice

Consists precisely of this --

Keeping things footloose

And fancy free

To the ultimate degree

It’s the mantra

He lives by

While traipsing

Through the city streets

And the very words

He taped to his boots

When we met

The other day
In Midtown

           

For Richard

Working the streets is 

Both means and end in itself

Whether panhandling or selling

Flowers on the corner 

It’s change that he seeks

And the freedom
That comes with it
But never the fixative

Of money

In Pursuit of A More Footloose Practice

 

I am posting here a (mostly) prose version of the first draft of a new poem that I am writing about Richard Musto.  Richard is an 88 year-old man who sometimes lives on the streets of Manhattan and is the subject of my upcoming biography called The Life and Times of Richard Musto.  

As I complete the first draft of this new work I have been thinking more about the spiritual dimensions of Richard's life, and this is the focus of my new poem.

*  *  *  *  *  *

A Footloose Practice

My Buddhist friends speak of this or that as being part of their daily practice, not that I’m entirely sure what they mean by this phrase.  But my guess is that Richard Musto’s daily practice could best be described this way – keeping things footloose and fancy free to the ultimate degree.

It’s the very mantra

That he lives by

As he traipses through

The city streets

It’s the message

Quite literally that

He taped to his boots

When we met the other day

In midtown Manhattan

What better evidence do you want to vouchsafe for Richard’s bona fides as a resident of the Floating World?  Long ago having consumed whatever seed corn that once may have come his way, Richard now abides by Providential means (that plus a small monthly stipend he receives from the VA for his 30% disability) as he takes to the city streets much as Han Shan and the rest of his gang took to the caves along the face of Cold Mountain, an eponymous hero, but in Richard's case almost every night in search of a new abode.

And Richard also engages in sporadic commercial activity by selling flowers, used books and assorted novelties out of a sidewalk storefront, whenever the weather and his health allows.  And while such activities would probably run afoul of a traditional Buddhist monk’s vows of poverty, they in no way impair Richard’s pursuit of his more footloose spiritual practice, since all of his inventory fits neatly into a canvas satchel as he bangs his way around town.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Please take a moment to visit the home page for Richard Musto's Life Story and support our kickstarter campaign when it launches in the days to come.

Why I Write -- II

It’s like there's this dog

Leaning out the car window

Except it's me trying 

To write things down

As fast as I can while

Reality keeps rushing by

And that’s precisely why

It’s so important that

I make a proper record

Of what I see and think

Before another moment

Passes into oblivion