9-11 and before -- come meet the real faces of New York City by taking a walk with me.... |
CRADLE OF THE INFIDELS Ars Longa Vita Brevis For Harrie Schwartz I was driving the last nails into the coffin of The New York City scene The day the rainbow faded…the day I woke without My morning constitution There were nights with my Head under the pillows and sheets My arms embraced The cold cotton shroud of silence I began to believe I had to keep That hot sting of conscience blessed fire From letting my demons out I imagined holding the head of America under The murky waters of many of her liberties Where skin magazines shared space with milk cartons With pictures of missing children smiling back With lost forever smiles I stared like you stared…and they stared Just long enough to see The narcotic appetites of curiosity take hold until… The voice announced the train I could see commuters scurry As they talked to themselves: Do I have my gloves? Magazines? Cigarettes? Hope I get a seat this time Oblivious to the heartbeats around them I was between the fists of a naked tainted city Going downtown..... I stopped just long enough to think about it Just a little longer than all the rest, See…it’s not as serious as most would believe it to be The clock will tick just the same Climbing the steps from the bowels of the city I made my way through her south side Took a backseat in Sharif’s cab He turned and smiled -- said I could call him “Sonny” Weaving in and out of a street With manhole covers made in India The cab made by a Japanese conglomerate So… My Arabian hacker drove like Mario Andretti And delivered me to the Iroquois Hotel where The Armenian doorman greeted me The Mexican porter took my bags The Puerto Rican shoeshine man waved as he ate Swiss cheese While the Korean boy delivered Chinese food to Room 23 Where the Spanish woman met him with her two French poodles I bought a cup of South American java at a Greek Diner That a Kosher Senegalese short-order cook served every day I made the sign of the cross – my quivering lips took a cautious sip I remember when I was a kid I used to climb high up into the rooftop water towers I sat and watched the city traffic whiz through the streets like blood coursing Through some winding asphalt veins At night I took my penance with whiskey Wore a cigarette in my ear like a war medal Tuesdays I ate at the Italian deli Olive oil on hard crust Sicilian bread Gave me the runs like Mexican water through a tourist But it was worth it…just to watch Francesca With that blonde peach-fuzz on her olive arms spreading the oil Sprinkling the garlic and tomato bits With hands that looked like they belonged to a man The ceiling fan purred above us Huge cheese bells hung silent and smelled so good It made me hungry Francesca called us her Soprasatta boys And all of us neighborhood kids listened and obeyed her Because… She had the biggest Most beautiful tits in town Irony is cheap in a city of greed With bootleg music and counterfeit watches I walked the streets wet in a cool Canal Street rain Stopped for a tube steak while Sharing the shelter of a German hot dog vendor’s Big yellow umbrella Who for a dollar twenty five Spread a little sauerkraut like a doctor dresses a wound And grand fatherly offered me a Jewish knish with Mustard and napkin – for free He gave it to me for free Something I never thought a German would do… Maybe I had that Nazi figured wrong…well, maybe But hey, that’s public relations…right? That’s business… No hard feelings I have a German camera at home I like sauerbraten and Jagermeister I was getting acquainted with myself In a moment of lonely desperation and A National Geographic encouraged me on but… I couldn’t feel the current through my middleclass skin I don’t cry anymore…I wear sadness well I have earned the wrinkles in my forehead…see? And crows-feet in the corners of my eyes I’m entitled to something…ain’t I? So I took a drag from a welfare purchased cigarette Passed to me by a woman with arthritic fingers From a top-hat and tails time She looked like she could have been an Andrews Sister Things were different then Acapulco Gold? Tampa Red? She asked Wow, you must be an artist…I said The jump an’ jive routine rules In the weeds of that old woman’s smile I found an orphan grain of beauty She showed me a picture of herself at twenty-one… Twenty-one and… I think I fell in love with that old lady…. God, that hag had cleavage as deep as a century is long Legs that curved like a highway to heaven A smile that may have turned heads in Times Square -- at noon, 1949 “Don’t ever grow old she whispered…” That scared me. It was almost like falling in love with something dead Like that beautiful Gail Russell or Ava Gardner Where does beauty go? It’s almost like seeing your own destiny as a cruel Well-fed fat sick….joke Where will my strength go? What will I be left with? Who will I show my photograph to? Will they laugh? Maybe God let man invent the camera -- to torment him Like this could be humorous in some way Years from now: “Here, take a look at this picture of me…I used to be beautiful.” “That’s you?” “Yeah, that’s me.” “You were beautiful….back then.” Back then? So I sat alone on a park bench and That old cosmopolitan woman walked away with Her school girl grin in tact Butt in high gear -- still teasing the air around her Played it like a piano I turned and looked away… A black man with the Sign of David around his neck Was fingering thru a dozen old reggae albums Leaning over into a wooden milk crate under a folding table On the ground at Seventh Avenue A little taped sign read: Fifty Cents Each His body bopping with rhythmic joy -- finding these treasures Men will get on their knees for a good bargain This qualifies A good vinyl fix is hard to come by I wonder if there’s a crate filled with blues under that table too Men will get on their knees for a good bargain Some women qualify A refuse engineer carrying a canvass bag and stick with a sharp pointy tip Wearing a turban came by and lifted my feet -- smiled politely He stabbed a dog-eared Downbeat Magazine from under my bench And silently stood with wide-eyed wonder Peeling the damp pages open carefully and grinning In his heavy foreign accent he apologized to me – Confessed that he dug….Miles Davis Go figure Then, an Irish cop passed -- squinted at me, studied my face as if I were his wife’s left over corned beef and cabbage He didn’t hassle me – Simply added that Davis was a hack trumpet player – not as good as Satchmo He smiled…what does an Irishman know about jazz anyway? Must be lonely walking a beat alone Brylcream in your hair, shoes polished to a glare People seldom approach him like he could be their friend I guess that weapon is like getting too close to…someone with the flu He spoke with a Brooklyn accent…with roots in Boston Like a Norman Mailer Kennedy…looking like an Alan Hale Cagney I’ll bet he shaves only twice a week -- wears boxers There was a bag lady – a homeless woman – Sitting close by as I read the Daily News She nudged me and whispered: “I married a man who had my maiden name So just like everything else in my life, nothing changed.” I chuckled And that was as good as an introduction We shared a bottle of Bailey’s She fished out of a garbage can near an uptown Jazz club She began to weep that well-rehearsed weep -- I had see it all before How she was once a very successful novelist Even knew a few gangsters Personally She did speak with a very refined voice. I pulled my cell-phone from my pocket -- tried to make a call but… The homeless woman pointed and asked if I knew how that phone worked I didn’t She belly laughed like a sailor and said some Hollywood actress invented some type of Spread-spectrum communication technology And college boy didn’t know how a cell phone worked. A Hollywood actress? I acknowledged with ignorance and doubt As I got up to walk away she shouted to me: “Hedy Lamarr….it was Hedy Lamarr….” I kept walking Her muffled whispers trailed in the distance….. “Look it up kid. Educate yourself” I did days later out of curiosity. She was right. Hedy Lamarr. There are moments I wished I had amnesia This morning as I walked alone it began to drizzle I approached a village record store To get in out of the rain I noticed there was a Russian clerk with a Russian accent with a chipped tooth I asked him if he had any Coleman Hawkins jazz records So he responds like an Alabama bluesman ~ It was hilarious Like a “jen u ine black boy from norleans, dig?” Dimitri used an over ripe banana from Dagastino’s As an imaginary saxophone ‘Cause everybody has a right to be cool nowadays Everybody hates Americans but Everybody wants to be an American He even had worn jeans on with a peace sign patch – sported a pair of scuffed Doc Martens Smoked Marlboros, too New York…what a town. So, again I stopped just long enough to think about it Just a little longer than all of the rest See…it’s not as serious as most would believe it to be In many ways WE are all the same This morning I saw a white bread priest blessing people Who drew a last pay check On what was a clear blue day That ended in a gray September cloud 2001 I found myself wondering Was she pretty? Did he like the Yankees? This apprehension in wondering…wondering…wondering There’s wild beauty in the collection of smoke and courage And there are those who must survive sorrow And I stopped just long enough To think about them Just a little longer than all of the rest See…it’s more serious than most would have you believe Fear never wears out its welcome The blood in my veins Always arrives at the same destination Despite who I am I thought I’d never find any Americans like me here But between the heartbeat of its endless streets and windows Down inside its subways -- or spreading jam on bread Sipping diet cola with a cheese burger or riding buses or old red sled Down a hill in Central Park Or running up a stairwell of a Burning skyscraper To save a Stranger like… Angelo He said his name was Angelo And her name was Donna His name was Shabbir Her name was Charlotte His name was Manny Her name was Sarah Her name was Denise His name was Wai-Ching His name was Michael Diaz-Piedra His name was Steven Patrick Cherry Her name was Moira Smith Lamar Demetrius Aleksandr Ingsborg Vassilios Aisha Nobuhiro Someone named Jesus and Someone named Mohammad Oh yeah…there was a Jesus in that building… alongside a Mohammad and a female police officer... Fate? Check the death scrolls These names weren’t added for poetic effect Divine coincidence ? Are these The capitalistic American pigs the world hates? Can we check the pronunciation of those names One more forsaken time? Because none could tell their race or religion on that day Because they all wore gray ash If you could find them I found Americans in those names… Did you ever really see one? I did. I took a ride in his cab I ate the hotdog he was serving She sat on that park bench with Hedy Lamarr on her lips And one even played an imaginary saxophone trying to be cool And he was Time may write a short term epitaph In each sad and angry face With names that end in vowels and those that do not With faces posted on city poles and subway walls ‘Cause you see…it is important More important than most would believe it to be Bad things will always happen to good people I take my leave and live with ghosts Others sleep in a terminal dreamland A donut and coffee On a desk no one can find anymore The twilight ones Who made a last phone call On a blue sky day in September And left their cars in parking lots silent and… Did not drive home to a family dinner The so many who will never Come home Anymore There are too many sins that can’t be forgiven A wound that will never heal Eyes that will never see again A wish never to be granted Words that should have been spoken And a hard crust Italian bread with oil That still waits to be eaten By a little Soprassata Boy Who instead poured a last glass of wine To toast his father And I’ll always wonder about the truth in the words a homeless man once said: “With all their education and diplomas Current psychiatry will always fail Because doctors are unable to help us Forget the past” Ars Longa Vita Brevis Words by John Apice (aka LaStrada) All names listed are real people lost Sept. 11th 2001 Personal friends: Steven Cherry & Michael Diaz Piedra Moira Smith - NYC Police officer and mother who called in the first strike on the World Trade Center Lost in the World Trade Center 9/11/01 Some of the final words of this poem were spoken during an interview With a homeless / nameless man from Canada 1983 who had his own Philosophy about why he was the way he was. Ars longa vita brevis = Latin: Art is long Life Is Short Soprassata – an expensive Italian salami The hero: the nameless person who stood in a crowd and wept for strangers on 9-11. C-Copyright-Registered House of Apice Poetry 2002 |