Today was the deadline for a contest sponsored by The New Yorker to write the caption for a cartoon by Victoria Roberts.  I saw the drawing in my mother's copy of the magazine as we flew home together from Grandpa Pete's funeral.  It really made me laugh.  I liked the drawing so much that I wrote this poem (from which the caption I submitted was extracted) in my notebook while sitting down for a while at the studio after I got back home.  


You know Dr. Bacon
I still feel a little fragile
But I keep having this incredible
Dream that I'm meant to be a symbol
Of Cosmic Rebirth

Otherwise I'm afraid
That being an egg really isn't
All it's cracked up to be

The Smoke Screen

I offer this poem up as a public service announcement.  It's written for the benefit of the readers of this blog who may be considering a trip to Midtown Manhattan (whether for business or pleasure) in the coming months and wish to be informed about the popular entertainments and diversions most likely to be encountered while walking through our busy streets.    



The Smoke Screen

 

One day early on

In our friendship

Richard Musto explained

To me how a smoke screen

Often serves as the basis for many

Of the most lucrative scams
Run on the streets

Of Manhattan 

And by smoke screen

Richard meant to say a diversion

Some kind of sidewalk

Sleight of foot or hand

Which then serves as a preamble

To greater flim-flammery

Such as when a man steps down

From the curb into the path

Of an oncoming clothes rack

And immediately starts to fight

With the guy pushing the rack

Which draws attention away   

From a kid in a red windbreaker
Who grabs the rack and streaks

Off down the block with it

As the pickpockets cut loose

Along the crowd's perimeter and

And a few minute pass by

Before the first patrol car appears

So the initial distraction

Provides the opportunity

For an ensuing sequence 

Of mild mayhem

And wealth redistribution

Enough to make Batman blush

It's precisely this sort  

Of maneuver that enables a lucky
Few working the City's   

Streets and bourses to

End up being so
Handsomely reimbursed


 * * * * * * * * *

And here to complete this blog entry is one of Michel's very finest picture capturing Richard in action with a bit of his own necromancy along the streets of Midtown.

An Email to Stephanie

This is a short poem I wrote to my friend Stephanie to congratulate her on launching her great new blog, which you can find by clicking on the link right below called wildnatureofny.com.


The more you put truth
Out into the world
The more room there
Will be for mistake
And misconstruction
Of your intent

But there's comfort
In that too since
Being misunderstood
Is likely the best sign
That you're already
On the road to be just as
You wanted to be

That's a good koan
For today don't
You think

From Cold Mountain to the Streets of Manhattan

I've just published a new issue of my Tang Spirit newsletter that includes new translations of poems by Han Shan.  Part of my current interest in Han Shan stems from the similarities I sense between his life in seclusion on a remote mountaintop and the life of my friend, Richard Musto, who lives on the streets of Manhattan.   Here's one of the poems I translated:

It’s funny how

Cold Mountain path

Proceeds along

Without a trace of

Horses and carts

As streams

Come together

It’s hard to remember

All their twists and turns

And the layers of peaks

That loom in the distance

Unknowable

The dew weeps

Upon a thousand

Blades of grass

And the wind

Moans in sync

With the pines

Here the path leads

To a bewildering place

Where each form asks

Of its shadow

From whence

It has come

可笑寒山道

而无车马踪

联谿难记曲

叠嶂不知重

泣露千般草

吟风一样松

You can find the full newsletter on the Tang Spirit website by clicking here. 

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