[6 not quite poems, not quite journal entries, meta-factual snapshots of everyday NYC life]
“NY in spring is backtalk & edgy. Attitudes leaking from cooped-up psyches.”
- Guy Trebay
• Spring Undress
Sheer, linen, fly-away, pleated, diaphanous, care-free, strappy, haltery, flimsy—with her I’ll-just-throw-it-on dress on the back of the motorcycle, bare arms around his chest, & even before the light is green he gives it a lot of gas as they dash through traffic, careful to take advantage of even the slightest hint of breeze so that it will gloriously expose her to wind, sun & eyes to wreak gleeful havoc with the dress, which is inadequate to keep her most intimate parts covered—her undies pink—& that is exactly its function: to trumpet its very dysfunctional inability to do what is asked of fabric: maintain a modicum of our modesty—oh, Jezus, it really is spring today.
• A Hundred Square Feet of Spring
It’s spring downtown. The fence is high & it’s seen better days although it still keeps the balls in & the predators out. I am taking a break from rounds as an office floater-messenger, eating lunch in the sun. The playground is full of screams & glee & rough housing & kids chasing super bouncy balls. I pick a cute girl to root for in dodge ball. She’s not going to win because all the girls aim for her because she is too pretty & most of the boys jilted by her do as well. She’s out in no time, sitting with her back against the fence where she can disappear into another realm. But then the teacher blows into a shrill whistle & they all have to line up neatly & march inside in single file—no talking. The patch that the sun hits is a piece of crumbling pavement no larger than a hundred feet square but at least for the half hour recess it’s spring here.
• The Eyes of the Balloon Seller
The guy holds onto the string of cheery balloons but none of their glee seems to shine back at him because he didn’t seem to be selling many & maybe this has been going on a very long time. He needs to smile more you could say. He probably knows that too but somehow never gets around to it anymore. His eyes look dark like he has been punched around a bit or like the holes you dig with a small garden shovel about to plant some spring flowers when you are suddenly distracted & you never end up returning to plant the flowers in those 2 holes.
• A Universal Interaction
The guy was probably an outfielder in high school & now has very little besides some clippings & trophies to show for it. Some people peek early, she says. His belly looks like he is 9 months pregnant—with 18 years of mediocre beer. It makes him seem cuddly & harmless, vulnerable even, a state that occurs at an age where the possible suddenly seems impossible, where you drink 1 beer & you gain 1 pound. How is that possible? Being miffed becomes a kind of MO. The charm of perpetual Pooh-like befuddlement. He turns to his friend: Hey good buddy, wanna go to McDonald’s?” “Na, Jerry, tell yuh duh truth, I’m tired o’ McDonald’s. Le’s hit Burger King tonight.” “Yer right, good buddy. We been to McDonald’s like a hundred times this month.”
• Animal Rescue Squad
We are eating breakfast at Odessa like we do almost every Sunday morning. We spot a young squirrel, lost, terrified, sprawled out on the walk. “I think it’s in shock or something.” Everyone is staring, some wondering what to do, mostly just staring & then walking on by … until a young girl reaches down, not listening to her mother’s hysterical warnings to leave it alone: “You get rabies I’m not takin’ you to no emergency room!” The girl picks it up in slow motion like an important scene in a movie, & places it gently in her rain jacket & carries it across the street to the park, where she lays it down in a restful patch of grass. Our warm sense of wonder soon returns to uneasiness because now we are back to talking about ourselves again.
• The Blue Shoe
So much sadness rests upon this one blue shoe, a loafer of some elegant manufacture. Maybe Italian. In the dusty window of the forgotten shoe store—neglected, never open, not a soul, but not for rent. Pinned to the elastic bridge of this 1 blue shoe displayed upon a slanted shoe riser, a hand-written sign declares: IT’S EXCITING!” While to a white Weejun hanging from a shoe heel rest display is pinned a sign that declares proudly: “IT’S COOL.” I read the full description of the True Moccasin: White Antiqued Weejun: Black Cush-N-Crepe Soles & Heels: Trojan Last. In Stock: 8/13 A; 7/13 B; 6/13 C. & the words transport me & for a while I was not the same. My dreams walk me from 26th all about the city glazed with rain water, wandering incognito. But soon I was the same again & that was disappointing.
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By bart plantenga
book available @ Sensitive Skin – https://www.sensitiveskinmagazine.com/books/ny-sin-phoney-in-face-flat-minor/