1—Mpls, Minnesota, l982
Note: The following 7-poems were originally
published in the Minneapolis, Independent Newspaper “Insight” between, August
12, l982 and January l983; modified for 12/20/2005.
Index/Outline
1- First Avenue [August 12, l982, Vol 9, No 22)
2- The Big Hennepin Avenue [[September 23, l982, Vol 9,
No 25]
3-&-4 - Bus Stop No. 1 and The Telephone Hood
[October 21, l982, vol. 9 & No. 28]
5- Elsie’s Christmas: back in ‘32 [December 16, l982]
6- About 10:00 PM [January 6.1983]
7- Ritual --on First Avenue: Mpls, MN
[January 20, l983]
These poems
were written as the author hung around the corners of Hennepin Avenue in Mpls
in the early 1980’s. Most of the
buildings have been replaced now, and the whole area has a new composure; and
so these poems may provide a piece of posterity—if indeed that is what you are
looking for, if not, they my simply for read for enjoyment.
1- First Avenue:
I saw a man
die yesterday
--A man I
never knew--
With all the
dignity of a dog,
He died at
twenty-two
He lay face
down on a sidewalk
Two bullets
in His flesh:
His black
skin absorbing the sun
Observers,
motionless.
O! I know
it’s not uncommon
For such a
happening
Within a
crowed asphalt city
Where people
are just things
But then it
hard to submit
--even with
our morels and mores
A life taken
so simply;
When after—the
unspoken door.
The paper
read: “1 man dies…22
Shot and
killed…First Ave…
From…Oklahoma…7
P.M…
Outside ‘a
bar-called Gem…”
I heard the
killers got away:
The motive--
It was hot
that day…
Note: I had stopped in the bar, call Gem that day;
and was walking down the street when I heard someone running. I turned around and heard a shot, one man ran
up to Hennepin Avenue, the other down the opposite way. The man dropped about 15-feet from me. The ambulance came within 12-minutes. I did a lot of drinking and bar hopping back
then. It was a very hot day.
2- The Big Hennepin Avenue [Mpls, MN ‘82; 7:15
PM]
On your
street Mr. Henn…
By 7th -- in an archway [hall]]
Marked “Magazines…”
To a passer
by -- a stranger calls:
“A joint my friend;
Something
else then.”
Between 4th
and 8th -- Hookers
Rest their feet --
In your busy taverns;
While cops
walk their beat
Looking in.
And outside a
hamburger stop
A cluster of provocative
Use unlawful talk.
Then in a
car-lot in back of
An Inn -- six argue
Over a fin.
Along 6th
Avenue a block away
A Wino picks up some butts
While being accosted--
In the light
of day.
A’d by a
parking meter
Not far away -- an old Vet
Waits for prey.
Down on 1st
-- walk two young studs
--Checking out cars
For a neighbor - run.
A’d on all
the bus stops
Within this square --
Tax paying people--
Watch and
stare.
At 9:15 --it’s
clear to see--
It repeats its - Self by three
Note: as I had
mentioned above, I would walk the streets back then, at night. I was working, divorced, and into what was
happening. I lived in St. Paul, and
played in Minneapolis. I guess there is
a time for everything.
In this next
poem, I can remember many times waiting by a bar, or inside a bar, or in a
building in Minneapolis, for the telephone.
And it seemed every time I was on the phone, the person waiting would stand
two feet from me listening; a way of saying let’s get going. What provoked this poem was one day I was on
the phone, a lady stood the two-foot distance I was mentioning from me. I looked at her odd, as to say step
back. She would not. So I told my friend I’d call later. I got off the phone. When the lady got on, I stood two feet away
from her. It really irritated her. When she got off the phone, I asked how she
liked it (?) She simply gave me a
discussing look, and got away from me.
Thinking maybe I was a crazy.
Then I went to the bar, sat down after that experience, and wrote the
following poem, called: “The Telephone Hood”.
It should be noted, even though these poems were published in the newspaper,
I never have given a commentary on them.
So you are the first to get a little back ground; although, they can be self-explaining.
3-The Telephone Hood
Something
I’ve noticed
And never understood
Is—a
Telephone Hood.
You’ll be in
a restaurant
Tavern or shop--
S/he’ll be
Five-feet away
And feeling they should;
Staring,
mocking--silently
Thinking their Mr. Bell System
You see.
But then it’s
their turn--
And supposedly -- WELL
Understood
Their phone
call is private,
Personal--get away
Telephone
Hood!
Dedicated to
the: Telephone hoods in the downtown area of Minneapolis, Minnesota.
4- Bus Stop
No. 1
His
cheek-bone
Contracted from swelling;
His neck,
three shades of red;
His temple,
an open wound--
With,
Blood oozing sown
His head;
His clothes
Textured with soot;
His eyes,
pale with death;
He
Stands--this young lad--
By bus stop
number one,--
On
The corner of sixth and
Hennepin
He curses the by-standers
For staring, not helping;
He laughs
with gestures of pain;
And
Carries on, and on, and on--
With
vulgarities.
As I approach
with empathy
I take a helping stance--
I rush to a
near-by tavern
And call an ambulance.
As
I return to the walk
I notice He’s
walking away
[laughing,
joking, kidding with
Friends];
A police
officer looks my way
With five words to say:
“We’ve done
our deed today.”
Three
Days pass
He’s back again
The same
corner
With a bottle
Of Gin;
I think
now--Should I, I
Befriend?
For He’s
calling Wolf again:
This ugly
looking human shock
--That
happens quite a lot--
On
Bus stop+ 1...
5- Elsie’s Christmas
(Back in ‘32)
A note about
the poem: Elsie is my mother. She loved Christmas Trees; decorating
them. She is today 81-years old. She doesn’t decorate them anymore, but
Christmas time, the buying of gifts, the
Cards and all
seem always to be the best of the year for her; and of course Christ’s
birth. I wrote this poem in December,
l982, and it was published on December 16, l982. Now, almost 20-years later, I re-discover it,
and share her memories with you. I
remember talking to her just prior to creating the poem. I asked her what came to mind. And when I gave it to her, she care for well,
keeping a copy in her bedroom drawer.
Part I
It was back
in ‘32
When a
paper-doll would do--
Icicles,
wooden shoes.
And just
about Christmas
Time--I remember--
I’d be
huddled
With a
brother, sister
Friend…
On a street corner
Watching
fire-engines,
Street--cars,
--Racing
Through town--
On
cobblestone streets,
Where
children sang songs.
And not far
away
Was an orphanage
--I recall--
St. Joseph’s
(in St. Paul):
I spent some
time there
After Ma died;
But it never
got me down--
Remembering
how she loved
Christmas year-round.
O! How I love
Christmas time--
With all its
beauty and rimes;
With the
horse drawn sleighs
And old
street lamps,
The Salvation
Army
Ringing their
chants.
And each
Christmas
I’d walk with dad
To the market
place--
Hauling a
Christmas tree
Home that same day;
Dressing it
with tinsel,
Bulbs of all
kinds.
Listening to
the radio,
Playing Christmas chimes.
Part II
Elsie’s Christmas [1982]
It’s now ‘82
Times have changed;
More Santa’s
Are doing their thing.
Artificial Christmas trees
Year round Christmas socks;
More children on skies,
Snowmobiles in the parks;
More toys, TV’s--
Parking lots;
Christmas cards that seem
To talk.
Festivals of merriment,
Ice-fishing on lake
McCarran’s;
Ice Castles, Parades --
Not quite the
same,
Not --
Quite like ‘32
But it’ll do.
But the church bells
Haven’t
changed;
The white snow-flakes
Still remain;
and
The North Wind -- still howls
With a
whispering chant.
O! How I love Christmas time --
With all its beauty and rimes;
Like back in ‘32
When a paper-doll would do.
Part III
Some things will never change
Like back in ‘32 -- we all knew:
In a stall in Bethlehem,
In a land called Judea
2000-years
ago--
A baby child was born, called,
Jesus Christ our Savior.
Word count: # 989/re-edited 2001
Added new version:
Part IV
Elsie’s Christmas--2001
O! The fun has never stopped even at 81
I watched her as she watched me
Open my gifts
a few days ago, as if
She was but ten
Still the
love for Christmas lays
Deep within her heart
Like back in
‘32,
When a paper doll would do.
And although
she can’t reach or walk
Like she use to way back then
She still can
wrap those gifts
And so this
is my story to you,
A Christmas
at 81, for my mother,
the whole
Year through…
6-About 10:00 P.M. /I met a Demon
(San
Francisco, l969)
Poem deleted for present
7- Ritual -- On
First Avenue (Mpls MN)
How shall I write?
This poem
with tears
Fears scholarly
years
With love?
In a pub on
first avenue
By fifth its
9: 15 p.m.
I’ sitting on
a wobbly
Wooden stool
Sipping light
cold beer
Thinking,
thinking
This is where
it’s at
The new now
me
Generation
crowd
Comes goes
To support their
New now me
atomic
Basic needs
The
bar-tender says
The same sir
“sure”
He smiles…no
tip
He’ thinking
now
I think he’s
thinking
Next time
buddy
Music
diffuses throughout
Bubbling complaints
All about
Politics
religion girls
Sports wrongs
A million
sold I bet
I’m thinking
of a poem
A poem, poem
to write
Something
peaceful
I say but who
would
Understand
In this world
of
Forced-fed
complexity
No that
wouldn’t go
Be read
A picture on
the wall
It’s staring
at me
Crowded skies
dense mist
Surrounding
its terrain
Realism I
say!
But that
brings pain
Too hard to
live with
Maybe a
sonnet haiku
Something
with rhymes
Stress’
metaphors
Similes
classical
Flowery psychological
(?)
I now look
sown at my
Light cold
beer
I must have
been sipping
Sipping sipping
It’s nowhere
My ash-tray
is filled
Butts butts
butts
I believe
there’re mine
Everyone’
busy
Pretending I
bet
Body’ bottle’
and minds
I doubt they
notice mine
I know! A universal
Subject
Intoxication
Note: compiled 2001/modified 12/20/05
